We are Scattered Through Time and Space
by kkolmakov
Summary: Modern AU one-shot collection based on your prompts. Thorin and Wren from the previous stories *No Infringement Intended* Send me more! One word and fluff/smut :)
1. Burger

"That is not a burger!" his tone is definitive and disdainful. Cantankerous, inconceivable, arrogant brute!

"That is a burger. It is vegan." The shock on his face!

"All right, I can tolerate living on the rabbit grub you've been feeding me for the last four days, but at least stop shaping it into normal food! The grass cannot pretend to be meat!"

You grab the plate and throw it in the sink. It shatters, the burger you spend an hour fussing over mixes with the glass shards.

"That is it, I've had it with you! If you don't like my cooking then why do you insist on eating here?! There is a whole bunch of burger joints just across the street, go get yourself a piece of real meat!"

"I paid for three meals as parts of the package in your B&B!"

"The ad clearly stated it is a vegan place. No meat, no dairy!"

"So the burger didn't even have cheese in it?" the tone is now sarcastic.

"It did. It is soy," suddenly you are sad for wasting food. "Was soy."

"I'll pay for it," his tone is mollifying. "Although it isn't my fault you have temper."

"Is everything about money with you, Mr. Thorington?! I spend an hour trying to please you!.." Oh bugger, you did not just say that…

"Indeed?" Bloody sodding gods, help me, in the name of Rassilon! The lifted brow!...

"You know what I mean," now you sound like a petulant child. "I endeavour… to incorporate… the interest of my guests..." Guest, you only have one so far. Why is he getting up and coming closer? "The excellent service is build upon… thorough consideration..." Oh my ovaries, he is like a prowling mountain lion.

You step back and bump into the counter. His arms cage you and he smirking. The cocky bastard!

"I am going to kiss you now. Is that all right?" Nod, damn it! That's my girl.

His lips are hot and magical. Gods, he does know what he is doing! Finally, you can touch the bloody glorious waves of his mane, they've been tormenting you for four days.

"I eat your food because when you worry that I won't like it, you bite your lip and fuss around me," he is purring and slides his lips onto your neck. Bloody hell, you are going to combust right here right now!

"You can eat your meat in here," you knees buckle, "just not in front of me."

"I'll eat your damn rabbit food," he growls and picks up your buttocks. Oh sod it! You wrap around him and bite his neck. It is after all _**bed **_and breakfast!


	2. Running

**Ha! Who said I can't control myself and stay away from smut?! :) Given it's pretty steamy and, weirdly enough, I was asked for smut, but this one just wouldn't go there. I still kind of like it :)**

You swing the bat and the polycarbonate headlight shatters, spills on the sidewalk and Thea squeals in delight and terror. You swing it again, and another blow follows. "Fuck you, Snake, and fuck your tiny pecker! Cheating tosser!"

At that moment you hear the loud voices coming from the joint, and the door flies open. You grab Thea's hand and dart down the street. "Common, run!" You are dragging her, still clenching the bat in your other hand, and you hear violent curses behind you. You sprint up, but then you hear the booming drumming of biker's boots behind you.

You see a narrow arch between the buildings and push Thea there. "Split! I'll lose him faster." "Wren!.." She tries to protest but you are already running ahead. You pick up speed, measure your breathing and when you already feel you have lost him, a large body smashes into yours and he pushes you into the narrow back alley. He slams you into the wall, and you yelp.

You stare in a pair of livid blue eyes and realize it's not your ex. He also pauses and steps back from you. "What the bloody hell?" He is breathing heavily, his chest heaving. You vaguely remember seeing him in the Snake's joint before, they call him The King, stupid bikers' swank. He is large and clad in black leather, which is nothing new with those tossers. He also drives a Manx Norton, just like Snake's… Oh, no…

"You are Snake's girl, right? What a hell is wrong with you?" He grabs the bat from your hand and throws it aside. He is still fuming and fisting his hands but he is in control. "I… I thought it was Snake's bike..." How are you supposed to know? Sort of looked the same... "Are you bonkers, woman? You were smashing your man's bike?" "He is not my man," your tone is venomous, "He cheated on me with a slaggy waitress from Polly's."

Why are you telling him this? Let's add humiliation into the mix, al'right? He stares at you and you notice the black ink on his neck. It crawls from under the collar of his black tee, and it is some sort of flame. It licks the tendons and veins on his throat, and hides behind his right ear. You swallow.

"Pillock," he frowns. You start edging sideways. "Sorry for your bike, I'll pay for the shop..." "Wait," he places his hand on the wall near your head. "Wren is it?" He licks his lips, and you are suddenly hot. If he tries anything you won't be able to fight him off. The question, will you fight though?

He is close, and he smells surprising nice. The leather, the cigarettes, but also the fresh soap and something else. His own fresh and spicy smell. You momentarily wonder what his skin tastes like and clench your fists. You need to get out right now.

He makes some internal decision and stares into your eyes. "Want to go out with me?" You freeze. No, you don't need another biker in your life, all their "the gang is the family", "I am the one with my bike, the ghost in the machine" crap. He is waiting and then snarls, "Sod it!" and presses his lips to yours.

He tastes good. Damn it, he tastes better than anything you've ever tried in your life! You moan and grab the back of his head. He is so much taller that you get up on your toes. He picks up your bum and you wrap your legs around him. His mane is in a loose ponytail and you scrape the nape of his neck under it with your nails. He growls and sucks on your neck.

You are bloody bonkers! You are making out with a random biker in a dark backalley, and one of his hands is already under your denim shorts. You are not wearing much, a decision to smash your ex's bike came to you when you were railing to Thea in your kitchen. Shorts and an old oversized tee over a boring white bra. Damn it, what does it matter what bra you are wearing? It does, since the same hand snakes under your shirt at the back and his deft hot fingers are on the clasp. You tear your mouth from his.

"Stop, stop!" He pauses and stares at you. The pupils are dilated and his cheeks over the black beard are flushed. "I am clean," he rasps. What the fuck? Does he really think you are going to shag him against the wall after speaking to him for five seconds?

You might. You have never done it before, but this time you might. You are not a blushing virgin, you had your share of men but nothing too wild. That is definitely wild. But bloody hell, there is something about him... "Me too, but that's not what I'm talking about!"

He exhales couple time and then carefully puts you back on the ground and smiles. It is a surprisingly sunny smile. "Sorry, love, got carried away." You realize your shorts are unbuttoned. What the hell, when did that happen?! He looks and sees your knickers peeking out. They have little pictures of crossed swords and battle axes on them. He cocks a brow and smirks. You smack his shoulder.

"What's you name? You normal name, not that pompous bikers' rubbish?" "Watch your tongue, woman," he guffaws. "Don't call me woman." You are smiling too. "It's John." "Nice to meet you, John, I'm Wren." He chuckles and pulls you into him. He is leaning in and you lift your face to him. "Take me to dinner." He smirks and nods. "For starters," he murmurs. The nerve in this guy!


	3. Networking

Is this the right door? It looks like the right door. What am I saying, they're all the same, bloody brown colour and ugly handles. What kind of a half arse nitwit uses Roman and Arabic numerals, and occasional letters on doors in the same building, on the same floor?

Sod this maze and sod this conference! You should go, John, networking is good for your research, John. Mingle, meet other professors, your matrix models in financial risk assessment and emerging markets fixed income indices need recognition. What you models need is you in front of the computer for a month, without any distractions!

And also, were they pissed when they were drawing the campus map? Sod it, let's hope this is the right door. You push the door, and it becomes obvious that it is definitely not the Morning Bleeding Panel of the Third Bloody International Economics Conference. The auditorium is large, packed with students, and at the bottom of the amphitheatre a lecturer is sitting on her desk. Is she sitting on her desk with her legs crossed?!

You feel like an arse, and start backing up. "Well, succumb to the gravity already!" Her voice is clear and commanding, and you plop your arse on the nearest bench. All students turn to look at you with a loud rustling sound running through the auditorium. The girl sitting next to you gives you a disdainful glare. Man up, John!

The professor returns to her lecture. Why did you sit? The escape route was just there, how old are you, dimwit? Her voice is energetic, ringing through the room, and you gather it is some feminist, manhate filled, English literature crap. You look around, most of the students are indeed girls in glasses, with an occasional bloke with ridiculous hair. Blimey, you just had to get into this aggro!

She is quite a looker though. Unruly flaming curls gathered in a messy something on her head, two long pins sticking out. Are those pencils?! The calves of the crossed legs are toned, breasts perky. What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Did you just imagine running your palms over those legs?! She is pretty far away, you can't even see her properly, deprived perv.

She jumps off the table and you understand that she is tiny. She will hardly reach your shoulder. Small but curvy. A jumper goes down mid thigh, but you can see enough to know there are hips, and a delectable round bum.

She is pacing in the front of the auditorium, gesturing energetically. Her small hands are flying in front of her, fingers splayed and motioning some round forms in the air. "Initially, she wanted to name her novel after the main heroine, as she did in _Mary Barton _but Dickens, a chauvinistic arse as he was, God rest his soul, insisted on a title that would emphasize the geographical and cultural difference between the two regions, and consequently the two characters, which gave the male character equal footing to Margaret. Never a woman on top obviously!…" The class laughs, and she pushes a red curl off her face. "Lord David Cecil in his assessment of the novel in _Early Victorian Novelists_ in 1934 states that she was "all woman" who "makes a creditable effort to overcome her natural deficiencies but all in vain"". She lifts a brow and the class laughs again. "Deficiencies, my ass!" You look at her in shock.

She keeps talking, pacing, her whole body moving in a mesmerizing rhythm. You can see it is a body of a dancer, you dated that crazy bird from Liverpool, you remember the signs. Her hands, face, shoulders, curls and hips are lecturing too, and her passion is pulling you into what she is trying to tell, and you are actually listening to the lecture. She is all fire and snark, but there is no manhate. She is sarcastic and observant, and you feel that yes, the character of the novel you vaguely remember from school program, "though dreamy, is a man like any other with flaws and a tender heart."

The lecture ends and students clap. You join in, and she bows to the audience, laughing. "Get out, get some fresh air, make out with random strangers, you are still young!" She motions them out. "Next week I'm expecting rough drafts of your term papers or pathetic excuses for why you cannot hand them in!" The leaving students laugh again.

You get up and to your own disbelief you start walking down the stairs between the rows of benches. The female students in square plastic glasses give you disapproving looks. Yes, that is a beard and long hair. I'm that chauvinistic tosser of a manpig that you all hate some much! Just let me pass, would you? What is wrong with uni chicks these days?!

The professor is picking up her stuff from the desk. You are still trying to get down, and see her dropping first the pen, then a notebook. She picks them up and drops her phone. It slides under the desk, and she bends down with an exasperated "Oh fiddlesticks!". You admire the backside and then think, "Fiddlesticks?" Your crazy aunt Tessa still says it but she is 90.

You come up to her while she is inspecting the phone. You cough, and she lifts enormous hazel eyes at you. She is also wearing the stupid plastic Grandpa glasses, but they are hot on her. You notice the freckles sprinkled on the nose and cheekbones. Common, John, don't budge it!

"Hey..." Brilliant beginning. Aren't you smooth today, John! She blinks and then smiles. "Hey you too!" You stretch your hand out. "John Thorington, University of Manchester". She shakes your hand. "Wren Leary, shortbread biscuits connoisseur." It is your turn to blink like a dimwit. Not that she blinked like a dimwit! It was actually cute! Did you just mentally use the word "cute"? She shrugs, "I thought we are exchanging honorifics."

Your mind is blank. There are couple of daft arse pick up lines floating there but in general it is just void. Something like "Then you should have said, "Wren Leary, the gorgeous."" Oh, just end yourself now!

She takes pity of you and smiles, "Judging by the attire," she motions at your leather jacket, "you are not in the English literature there, in the University of Manchester." "Economics and Computer Science." "Uh-huh," she is fixing the glasses on her nose. Those are actually pencils in her hair. "So what brought you to my lecture, John? Or did you go into a wrong door?" Blimey. She starts laughing. "Seriously? What are you, five? You couldn't excuse yourself and leave?" Her laughter is contagious and very sexy. "You have a commanding voice!"

She pushes your back into the door of her office and grabs you around your neck. She pulls your head down, and you are kissing her, your head spinning, all your skin burning. How did you get from walking through campus and chatting, well, all right, shamelessly flirting, to her greedy little hands pushing your leather jacket off your shoulders? You grab the bottom hem of her jumper and pull it off. Fuck, those are hell of beautiful breasts! Perky, round, perfect size for your hands, and the red lacy bra is a pleasant surprise! You are groping each other and move away from the door.

She jumps away from you and darts back to the door. What?! You feel completely drunk. She locks the door, dashes to a shelf near a wall and start rummaging through a box on it. You are standing in the middle of her office, like a complete pillock, staring at her. She fishes a condom out of it and pounces at you. You shake off the stupour and grab her. You spin you two around and prop her on her desk, pushing some papers off to the floor.

"Those are ungraded papers, you barmpot!' She is laughing and pulls off your tee. What a hell is going on? You are completely dazed, her hot lips and surprisingly strong palms all over your chest and shoulders. You go into sensitive overload. But then her hand cups her erection, and you leap into action. You suck on her neck and ear and unclasp her bra. The jeans buttons go next, and her hot palm encircles your shaft. Fucking fuck! She is biting your shoulder and suddenly pushes you away. You are blinking and staring into her giant eyes, still covered with the glasses.

"So you know, I've never done that before, the condom is from that safe sex event they had on campus, and I only dated three guys in my life." All you can do is nod and hope she doesn't change her mind. "You are just so..." She waves her hands in front of your face and suddenly grabbing a handful of your hair she presses her mouth to yours again.

That does it! Brain off, libido on! You grab the waist of her denim and knickers, she supports her weight on her hands, lifts her bum, and the clothes are on the floor. On the way they apparently drag off her shoes with them, judging by two thuds on the floor. You press kisses to the tops of her breasts, she drops her head back. Then her ribs, she giggles from the beard, then her stomach, then her thighs and knees and she spreads her legs wider. You are kneeling and see a pair of happy pink socks with yellow polka-dots on her tiny feet. You chuckle, and she slightly kicks your shoulder.

You shift your attention to her hot center in front of you, dark curls wet and glistening, but she grabs your ears and pulls you up, gently but decisively. You get up again and she grabs the square package wrapper. "I'm clean though," she says pointedly. "Me too," you choke on your words as she is rolling a condom out onto your cock. She pushes your jeans all the way down to your knees and wraps her legs around you waist. You catch her mouth and push in her.

She is super tight, and it feels divine. She is clenching her inner walls and making soft mewling noises. You start thrusting, gentle at first, but quickly picking up speed, since the encouraging pushes of her calves on your arse and her nails digging into your shoulders are sort of hard to misinterpret. You are just starting to feel the pressure pooling in your stomach, when she bites into your shoulder and comes. She is panting and pressing her forehead into your neck, and a sudden feeling of tenderness floods you. What the fuck is with you and this girl, John?

It is quickly forgotten since she pushes her hips into you again, and you start thrusting into her still quivering walls, and then the world shatters, fireworks, stars and shit. More like a nuclear bomb explodes in your brain, and everything around is white and hot.

You two are panting, her naked bum is on the table, your arse is cooling in the air of her office. She comes to her senses first and looks at you. She is gorgeous, the pencils lost at some point, orange halo of curls, giant hazel eyes behind the stupid, sexy glasses, and an adorable blush on her cheeks. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," she mumbles, and you start laughing. "That is the weirdest thing anybody said to me after a shag." She chews her lip and say, "Seriously, I don't know what came over me."

You kiss her again, this time it is your turn to do it right. "I have never done it before either, I have had five serious relationships. I'm single and clean. Will you have dinner with me?" She guffaws. Have you mentioned you just love her laughter? "It sounds very nice, except I can hardly take you seriously since your cock is still in me." "It likes it there," she smacks your shoulder. "I don't like Chinese, the rest is fine." "Deal," and you kiss her again. Best conference ever!


	4. Christmas

**A/N: It isn't based on a prompt. But it just wouldn't leave me alone, so here it is :) It is very raw and needs editing, but I'll just post it anyways.**

You hate Christmas. You hate it with every fibre of your soul. The obnoxious lights, the consumerist frenzy, the cheesy elves and red-hatted dwarves everywhere. Have they read the fairy tales? Those guys are supposed to be ferocious warriors and blacksmiths, not daft faced, rosy cheeked present wrapping clots! Everywhere around you, it's constant ho-ho-ho and even underwear in the stores is all red and green. A sexy Mrs. Santa Claus? Seriously? The fake smiles on postcards, the ideal family picture that everyone has to match for a week, while Aunties and Uncles are here, and then you can go back to hating and backstabbing each other.

To think of it you can think of one, only one good Christmas you have had in your life. That year you got the worst stomach flu one can imagine in the morning on Christmas Eve, and you were vomiting so violently and loudly that your kind-hearted next door neighbour came knocking at your door. You were so pallor that your anyway pale skin had that weird glowing greenness around it. Here is the Christmas cheer for you! You called your parents on Skype so that they could actually see you, since they would probably be certain that you were faking it to "cower your way out of your responsibilities". They let you go very quickly, probably because you actually threw up in front of them into a garbage bin.

You slept most of that day, and then on Christmas Day you opened your eyes in your own flat, in your own bed, and that was the best Christmas morning you could imagine. You had some chicken soup that the same neighbour brought you, bless her, and you were watching telly. Then you opened the present you bought yourself and actually wanted, as opposed to "a pair of nude high-heeled louboutins that every self-respecting girl has to have". Sometimes you want to yell, "No, Mom, the book is still a better present", but your years of trying to shout through to them have passed long ago.

This year you are unfortunately healthy. You are obviously contemplating faking it or maybe very carefully jumping under a cab, so that all you get is "'tis but a scratch" but at the same time so that you would still have to go to a hospital and sit in a line for six hours. That would be your second best Christmas then.

You are out of luck this year. In the morning when you are already finishing packing, you hear a knock at the door. Thinking that it is your favourite neighbour, Mrs. Banner, you swing the door open and see your older brother. He saunters in your flat, not waiting for an invitation and gives it a critical look over. Great, what is it this year?

Wren has this weird plant in her parlour. Really, what kind of plant? Is it a cactus? Is it a ficus? Is it marihuana? Oh, don't be like that, Wren, you mingle with those hippies, anything can be expected from you. I work in a publishing house, Mom! Well, that is not a law firm for certain. Look at your hair. I gave you that very expensive hair straightener that my very gay hairdresser suggested. And you still look rather unpleasantly disheveled.

He is standing on your favourite rug, a puddle of slush growing under his very expensive shoes, probably made of baby lambs that only had peaches in their comfortable but short lives, and he sighs in exasperation. "You are still not ready." No shit, Sherlock, and you know why? Because the last thing I want to do is to carpool with you, your snobbish wife and a way too mature for her age teenage daughter.

Every time you happen to your niece, you send your gratitude to all possible deities for being kicked out of that fancy school for girls. Disorderly behaviour, my ass. You punched a teacher in the face. They should have given you a medal. The dick was humiliating and mishandling girls for years, the only reason he was not charged with anything was that he never actually moved beyond verbal abuse.

"I will drive myself, don't worry," you are pointedly not moving from the entrance door indicating that he should go. He makes a scornful noise, "I would not trust your car. In all this snow a Jag is the only safe option." Nonetheless, he puts his gloves back on and leaves. Dear sis, your car is old and rusty and you will kill yourself in all this snow, but see you later. Lovely!

Now there is no chance to escape. They saw you, they know you are still breathing, you are expected to be at the dinner that you mother "cooked". Meaning she was in the vicinity of the goose they are going to serve for the Christmas dinner, and possibly the cook passed her the thermometer to recheck the readiness. Why is it always this goose? It's greasy, heavy, you remember the smell of it for days afterwards, the especially chosen mandarin oranges for its glaze sticky and glossy on its skin. You shiver in disgust.

You scan your belongings again. Which of the two will cause less indignation, a white fluffy pullover with a turtle neck, which "makes you look a bit too round, dear", or the black V-neck sweater, "that is a bit too tight around your breasts"? Choices, choices…

Another knock at your door shakes you out of sad contemplation of your wardrobe. Since your middle brother would never fall so low as to drive to this part of the city, you bravely open the door. It is indeed Mrs. Banner this time. She is a tall, lithe woman, with the most gorgeous silver hair you have ever seen in your life. She is beautiful, at her 70 she is confident, flirty, and snarky. You adore her and sometimes, after an especially difficult day at work or a conversation with your mother you just feel like running to her flat and crying in her arms. You never do, but sometimes you think she probably would not kick you out. She would probably make you tea and rub your back. That's what mothers do. Supposedly. You saw it in a film once.

"My dearest, I know you are leaving to visit the Angels of Death," you might have overshared your frustration regarding your family matters, she did not seem to mind, "So I will be concise. I'm having a small gathering tomorrow, some of my least appalling relatives, so you are invited. Come back earlier from that house of torture. The party starts at five, but you are more than welcome to come any time before or after it."

You always stay at your parents' for three days, there is no way you can escape before it, but you keep a brave front and thank her ardently. You want to rush inside your flat for her gift, but she stops you. "You will give it to me tomorrow, my dear," she gives a quick pat to your hand on the doorframe and leaves.

You are dragging your suitcase into the elevator and feel stupid tears pooling in your eyes. You don't want to go, you want to stay and watch telly, maybe make yourself a nice small dinner. And tomorrow at fifteen past five you want to put on your favourite dress and go to Mrs. Banner's, have a drink and chat with her relatives and friends. You once met her cousin, a very old gentleman who was entertaining you for an hour with his stories from his youth when he was a jockey. You think you haven't laughed so much for years. He was winking at you and saying that you reminded him of an old flame, pointedly looking at your unruly copper hair.

You can hardly see anything from the moronic mist in your eyes, when you step out of the elevator and collide with a wide, cashmere clad chest. You start mumbling excuses, completely dragged now, and lift your face. In front of you, you see the most stunning pair of blue eyes. The man standing in front of you is very tall and very broad-shouldered. He could almost be called heavy, if only all that mass didn't radiate dynamic strength. It is a body that moves a lot. His palms are on your shoulders, and you are frozen in the doors of the elevator. The low rumble of an absolutely sinful voice floods your ears, he is graciously asking for forgiveness, and the doors start closing. He slams one of his large palms on its edge, and it backs off.

You are staring. You are standing on the threshold of an elevator, its doors jerking spasmodically under his hand, and you are ogling a tall dark stranger. He is indeed very dark. His face is tanned, and the black hair is thick, wavy and to your utter shock seems to be very long. You cannot see but have a distinct impression that he has a long ponytail on his back. A few silver strands above his forehead and on his temples make him look even more stunning. There is a beard too. You hate facial hair, but this beard is something else. It is lush, smooth, and it is just asking to be touched. You feel your fingers twitch.

The elevator squeaks pitifully and tries to close the doors again. The object of your ogling keeps his palm on it, and you realize he is holding it so you can come out with your suitcase. The spell broken, you squawk couple more pardon-me's and dash by him. Please, any deities there are in this world, don't let me run his feet over with the suitcase.

You rush through the hall, outside, the elevator finally closing behind you, judging by a relieved ping you hear. Your heart is beating in your chest like a frightened parakeet. You are an idiot, Wren, you got flustered from bumping into a guy. Pull yourself together, what are you, twelve? Yes, he was impressive, but he is not even your type. Tall, skinny, blond with smart specs and sensitive long fingers are your type. Intellectual, slightly burdened, slightly insecure… You like Apollos, the guy in the elevator was Hephaestus. Firm stubborn jaw, large calloused hands, what does he do, forges mock medieval weaponry? Thick black eyebrows, massive forearms, as much as you could see under a black coat, expensive spicy cologne. The muffler was nice, dark blue, and velvety. Alright, enough analyzing every little detail you noticed about him. You probably will never see him again.

The cursed car does not start. You try and try, but it just gives you a pathetic cough somewhere deep in its metal belly, and then nothing. There is petrol, there is a spark, maybe, after all there is some sound coming out of it. What do you want, poor pet? Please, please, please, let's just go. I know you want to stay home, believe me, I know. But we need to go.

They are waiting for you. And every minute you are late they will come up with a new cleverly veiled insult to bestow on you later. Come on, let's not give them another reason to smash your dignity in pieces. You are already not a lawyer, single, red haired, skinny, hate polo and derby, vegetarian and bookish, what else do you want to add to it?

You slam your hands into the wheel and start sobbing. Please, please, I never ask anything from you, but if you are there, any deity whatsoever, just let me get it over with. Three days and you can go back to your life, where you are respected and somewhat loved, Thea loves you for sure, where you have friends and even laugh sometimes. You press your forehead into the wheel and sob louder.

A gentle tap on your window makes you jump and you hit your head to the rearview mirror. The guy from the elevator is standing outside your car and he has to bend down substantially to peer into your tiny car. You lower your window and smile. All you can think of is that you probably look like a racoon. For the first time in forever you put some mascara on, for your parents' sake, and now it is probably trickling down your face.

Another thought blaring in your head right now is that he took off his coat and stands in front of you in a red pullover with rolled up sleeves put on a white tee. You were right, the arms are massive, black hair covering the forearms, palms large and broad. Your both hands can fit in one of his. "Hello! Wren right?" "Yes?" Are you asking, Wren, because it sure sounds like you are so dazzled that you can't remember your own name. Literally. "I am John, John Thorington."

And then it clicks. Thorington as in the son of Hamish Thorington, Mrs. Banner's first husband. John as in her son, the historic architect and the expert in medieval armour. You were not that far off with the forging idea.

"Would you like me to have a look at your car?" His voice has to be illegal. It is soft and low, the Northern accent almost untraceable but giving it an interesting tinge. "Yes, please. I don't know what is wrong with it." His eyes are not blue as you initially thought. They are cerulean, with a mirthful glint in them, with crow's feet in the corners. These are eyes of a man who laughs a lot. "The bonnet?" You pull the lever and he disappears at the front of your car. You frantically check yourself in the mirror. Well, it could be much worse. Just a couple smudges.

Your car is dead. The coughs you heard were its last cries of agony. John says so, and the mechanic who grumpily arrives on Christmas Eve two hours late confirms it. In those two hours John is entertaining you with a small talk. It is mostly him talking since you are tongue-tied. You worry that he is cold but he chuckles and says that the city winter is as easy as falling off a log. You assume he means he is fine.

When the mechanic leaves, you give in to your despair. You are already late and now you need to find a cab who will agree to drive you for four hours. Four hours through... a starting flurry? Bugger, sodding weather, can it get any worse? You let John carry your suitcase back into the building hall, and you fall on a sofa.

He is standing towering over you and you feel like screaming. Stop invading my personal space! You with your majestic mane, gorgeous eyes and effortless chivalry. Stop being so enticing, so alluring with your rock hard muscles, your warmth, your laughing eyes, the white even teeth! Stop asking what you can do, stop helping, stop seemingly caring! Stop being so perfect!

Go back to your wonderful life! Go back to your medieval castles, your skiing and mountain climbing that Mrs. Banner is so proud of and worried about! To the endless parade of gorgeous high class women that are probably throwing themselves at you. To your interesting and fulfilling life, and let me wallow in my misery! He sits near you and your senses are assaulted by the smell of his skin and the heat radiating from him.

You pull out your mobile and he suddenly covers your hand with his hot palm. "Tell me you are not planning on calling a cab." "I am." "It is a four hour drive and it is a blizzard out there. No cabbie will drive you in this weather, on Christmas Even to the other end of the city, to say nothing of your parents' house. Call them and tell them you are not coming." "I can't." "No one will expect you to come. It is plain dangerous!" They will, he just doesn't understand, they don't care. All they will know that you were not there on time when antipasto is served. "I have to go, I can't not go!" Why are you arguing with him? It is none of his business. "Wren, you are not going anywhere in this weather." "Why are you telling me what to do?" You both are raising your voices. "Because you are obviously not thinking straight. What is there so important that you just have to be there?" "You don't understand!" "Then explain," he sits closer to you but you still have to tilt your head to look into his face. "If I don't go, it will only prove… they will just say..." "What?" "That I'm a failure!" You shout and then cringe. That sounded so melodramatic!

He is looking at you with an unreadable expression. "Sorry, that was daft. I meant..." "I know what you meant," he sighs and then suddenly picks up your hands. An electric shock runs through your body and you just hope he doesn't feel that your fingers are trembling from the contact with his skin. "You are a young, attractive, smart and successful woman, but when you go there you feel like you are ten and you…" He is looking for a thing to say. "Like I just got kicked out of a fancy girls' school? Yeah, pretty much." "Even more reasons not to go. Why would you subject yourself to that?" "Because if I don't they'll give me hell later." "How?" "They'll call..." "Dont pick up." "They'll come..." "Don't open the door."

You jerk your hands out of his and jump on your feet. "It's easy for you to say. You have the most wonderful mother in the world! You are the full package! You are gorgeous, hunky, talented and rich! You have nothing to be afraid of, and you know you are loved! I just always feel… unwanted! You don't know what it's like!" You come to a halt and realize that you just yelled a whole load of overemotional crap into the face of a semi-stranger in the middle of your building's lobby. And you called him hunky. Gods, let me get killed by a lightning right now! You cover your face with your hands and just want it all to go away.

A second before his hands touch yours, you know he is standing close. The heat, the fragrance of his cologne and the calm strength coming from him envelop you, and he pulls your palms from your face. His eyes are laughing and an unidentifiable emotion is splashing in his eyes. Just, please, let it be anything but pity! You will not survive pity! "Did you just call me gorgeous and hunky?" "Yes, I did. And I stand corrected." He guffaws and pulls you into a tight embrace.

It is magical, and you realize you just want to spend your whole life here. Pressed into his warm chest, enveloped in his arms, your cheek on his strong beating heart. "Call your parents, Wren, and tell them you are spending your Christmas with a lover," he is murmuring into your hair. "I don't have a lover." "Good," he is smiling. You can't see but by now you have learnt the intonations of his valour voice. He lets you go and pushes your mobile into your hand. When did he take it?

"Common, dial," he urges, and you are biting your lip. "Oh cor blimey, give me this," he snatches the phone and starts flipping through your contacts. "Hey, it is private!" "Do you have texts from your boyfriend or naughty photos here?" "No!" "I'm not interested in anything except these two things… Aha, here is it!" He shoves the phone back into your hand and you hear the dialing tone. "Leary residence?"

"Mom, evening, it's me, I am afraid I have bad news..." You start pacing around the lobby, under his attentive gaze. You rub your neck and pull at the collar of your pullover. You attempt to explain but she interrupts and starts calling your father to the telephone. You shrink and lower your head. I am a smart, grown-up, fairly attractive woman… You are biting your lip, and then you father's even cold voice is crawling into your ear. You nod, and nod, picking up non-existing lint from your sweater. You forget about John standing there, and feel like you are indeed ten again, and Daddy is not very pleased with your behaviour.

At that moment a pair of hot lips is pressed at the nape of your neck, and you jump around. He is giving you a mischievous, lopsided smile and one of his eyebrows is lifted up. He is sexy as hell, his posture relaxed but his eyes are blazing. The sensually curved lips twitch, and he cocks the brow higher.

You see challenge and fire in his eyes, and you interrupt your father, "I have to go, Dad. Sorry I'm not coming. Merry Christmas!" You throw the phone behind you on the sofa and getting up on your tiptoes you wrap your arms around his neck. He bends down allowing you better access and pecks your lips. "All done?" You are laughing at his mock "exasperated yet loving husband" tone. "Yes, I'm done." "Great! Let's go, it's time to start cooking dinner." He picks you up under you bum and you hang on him, your legs around his waist, hands buried in the ebony mane. He starts walking towards the elevator.

"Are you going to kiss me or we are going to make out in front of your mother?" He guffaws and then whispers into your ear, "We have the whole elevator ride to find out."


	5. Shreddies

They meet at a grocery store near their apartment building. She thinks that he is charming. He thinks she has a delectable bum. She noticed him around in the parkade, he can't stop looking at her delicate throat. "So, tell me, Ms. Leary, what is your cereal of choice?" It's Two Scoops. He goes for Shreddies.

He is loudly crunching his cereal, she thinks he is the most adorable thing she has ever had in her kitchen. The cheeks under the thick beard are moving, he is absorbed in his newspaper. She is staring at the entrancing jaw line, he is pretending to read. "You are ogling me, Ms. Leary." She blushes, he gives her the entertainment section.

He shoves her on the kitchen table and pulls the belt of her bathrobe, she stretches and arches her back. Her shoulder bumps into the box and the brown crunchy squares spray around the floor. "I never liked your cereal anyways," she laughs. "You know nothing of the breakfast cereal." His beard tickles her stomach, she moans.

She throws the box across the kitchen, but it is empty. The sound doesn't bring release. "Why don't you just leave?" He looks lost, she is crying. He sinks on a chair, "I can't." She goes back to her bedroom, he is smoking in the kitchen. She says she will take care of it. The bleeding comes on its own two days later, she asks for her key back.

They have one-night stands, they move on. She dates, he shags. They see each other at the parkade, she pretends to text. She knocks at his door one night. She doesn't stay till morning. It is as good as they remember, it is much more hurtful in the morning than she hoped.

He is drunk, she is disheveled. He is banging on the door, she is surprised she opens it. They shag on the kitchen floor. She comes three times, he is mumbling words of love. They move to the bed. She thinks they will talk in the morning. She wakes up alone.

They meet at the grocery store, he asks if she is dating anyone. She retorts, he says, "It matters. I want to know." She pauses, he takes her hand. His blue eyes are pained, she misses his throaty singing in the shower. They kiss in the cereal aisle. He is clenching her coat, she can finally touch the grey strands on his temples again.

Tom likes the tasteless brittle squares like his father, Unna likes Frosties. With the third one on the way she always forgets at least one kind of cereal at the grocery store, he loves her more than life itself. She stares at his sleeping face, he makes her ginger tea in the mornings. The ultrasound shows two hearts, he mumbles "Out of a frying pan."


	6. Camping

**A/N: I started this as a draft for a fic that suddenly started expanding exponentially in my head. I'm worried it might turn into a full scale multi chapter story and then my head will explode. The whole universe of these characters is suddenly so clear to me, all of them already living their own lives. It is definitely running away from me again… 0_0 **

**So I'll just use the draft as an intro that outlines the premises of the story, while the second half is based on a prompt "camping" from Just4Me. She asked for smut and that is what she gets! Contemporary, non-Tolkieny language makes me more graphic :) Be warned!**

You meet Philip and Killian Durinson at the uni during the first year. Unlike the two blue-blooded "princes" who come from the long line of renown doctors and surgeons, rich and posh, you have a scholarship. To sustain yourself you tutor, work as professor's assistant and do the all available drone work in labs. You meet Phil first, one day his golden-maned head just pops up in your dorm room. He is failing Genetics, and here is where you come in. He is hitting on you all through the first class, after which you have a serious conversation. It includes kneeing him in the bollocks after an especially explicit attempt and a lecture on the respect towards women. You become friends after he aces his test, and that is when you get introduced to Killian.

The younger Durinson has no problem with studies. Less ambitious and probably less gifted than his brother in the medical field that they both pursue, he is nonetheless one of the top of his class. He does not require a tutor, he needs help in "the matters of heart" as his brother sarcastically puts it. The redhead he is after is in Anthropology and is a socialist. Since all the "scum" of the university, meaning those who have to work to get by, are more or less your close acquaintances, Killian comes to you for help. You introduce them, but she does not seem interested.

For no particular reason, you start dating. You are so wrong for each other that you never even get to sex. He spends couple of nights in your bed, but the spark is just not there. You break up, actually laughing about it, and become friends.

It continues for two years. Most of the time you study and work, but sometimes you let yourself forget the long list of goals set in your head, replace your glasses with contacts, put on red shoes and go out. Most of the time it is with your friends from BioChem, but with years it is increasingly more often with the Durinson brothers, and their clique of posh medical students. They are surprisingly accepting of you, probably since you are not interested in either of their males as a date. You suspect that they consider you gay, which you do not discuss, since it allows some degree of ease in your relationships and also because you are not sure yourself. At this stage you also do not care. You are busy.

With time they start inviting you to more family events, since the upper crust that they revolve in tends to have multigeneration gatherings. You get lost in the flurry of young faces. "This is Wren Leary, my friend from uni," that is how you get introduced to many people whom you would have never even dreamt of meeting. Phil is laughing at your constant resistance to use their family connections. "Use them," he is joking, "not that we need them." You receive your first grant because the head of the commission recognizes your face from the last year Equinox Picnic. You feel humiliated and stop going with the brothers to their mansion for breaks.

You miss it through, the old house, the enormous garden, the magnificent library, and mostly their mother, Deadre Durinson, nee Thorington. She is friendly, even-tempered and seems to envelop you with warmth and care. When you stay in their house, sometimes you feel that she singles you out of other friends of her sons, cares for you more, dotes on you even.

The only person from their small family you practically have never met is Deadre's brother, John Thorington. A renown neurosurgeon, he practices all around the world, travels a lot and his short visits rarely coincide with the occasions you are invited to. You suspect that he is avoiding crowds. You have seen him twice, once he arrived when you were already leaving the mansion, you shared a breakfast. He was jetlagged, and you are still not sure if his haughty silence is his customary treatment of the likes of you. The second time you saw him in a more official environment, during the Honourary Dinner at uni. You follow Sherlock Holmes' approach and delete the memories of his massive strong body clad in a dinner jacket. You have a tuxedo kink. If a sexual fantasy also included his blazing blue eyes and an exotic luscious ponytail an orgasm following it would probably incinerate you.

At the end of fourth year you give in to Phil's whining and agree to go to their mansion for their annual "trip to the swamps". Too late you realize that it means camping. A large crowd of their friends arrives to the mansion, they are later joined by their older relatives, and then everyone, loaded in Land Rovers, is driven into the middle of a swamp. You are mortified through the trip, newly bought camping clothes and no outdoors experience. You grew up in the heart of the city, the only grass you are familiar with is the bolding lawns in the city parks. The Durinsons both dote on you, help with a sleeping bag and share their bugspray.

While the older crowd enjoys some bird watching and fishing, you lot dawdle around. But the night comes, and the apparently long awaited bonfire time comes. It is roaring, flames are seemingly licking the sky, and you are awed. The only problem arises when you realize that bonfire means bewy and skinny dipping. Neither of the two interests you. You can't drink, pretty much losing consciousness after three shots, and even more so you are not looking forward to what you understand is an advertisement of available goods. When everyone starts talking too loudly and walking unsteadily, you sneak away and go back to your tent. You are supposed to share it with Killian, since you are sort of familiar with each other.

In the middle of the night while the noise of the bonfire party is still rumbling through the woods, you wake up because you desperately need to pee. You wander out of the tent clad only in light PJs and wellies. Unfortunately alcohol consumption usually triggers promiscuous behaviour in youth, and all bushes around the campsite seems to be occupied by two, sometimes three, people, and after learning three new sexual positions you are desperate. The swamp and the woods frighten you, but the nature calls. You venture into your quest.

After twenty minutes of walking and finally in a state of complete bliss from your bladder finally empty you realize that you are lost. Not completely, you more or less know where to go, the noise of the bonfire still echoing between the trees, but you suddenly realize that you are separated from the hostile environment of the wild nature by a flimsy cotton material of your polka dot pajamas. You carefully tread between the trees, constantly feeling that something is stretching its furry paws to get you. Then you catch a face full of spiderweb and shriek. Your own voice frightens you even more, and you dart sideways. Your foot gets stuck in an especially gooey muck and you frantically pull it out. You know you are being unreasonable, but you are shaking and sprint towards the fire you can see between the trees ahead.

Two things happen at the same time. You see a tent, erected under a large oaktree, and something grabs your leg. It is wet and scratchy, and you squeal. All decorum forgotten, you grab the zipper on the tent and jerking it open you jump inside. You pull the zipper up and freeze with your hands pressed into your chest. At this stage you don't care even if it is the Dean of your Faculty inside of it, which he is not, his was green, you are not going out there again.

**XXX**

"Are you lost?" The sleepy voice of John Thorington startles you, and you jump up with a yelp. The tent wobbles, and you stare into the darkness. Your eyes are used to the night already so you can guess the outline of his mane and wide shoulders. His cologne assaults your senses. Who actually puts any on when going to spend a night on a swamp? Doesn't it attract all kinds of stinging, blood sucking monsters? Or does it repel them? Your knowledge of camping is simply pathetic.

"Something touched my leg," you breath out as if it is supposed to explain him everything. He is lying on his back, propped on his elbows in futile attempts to see you better. "I am Wren, Wren Leary." "I know who you are." That's a surprise. "What I do not understand is what you are doing in my tent. Shouldn't you be in Philip's?" "I'm actually sharing one with Killian." "You are dating him now?" Is it disdain in his voice?

"No, I'm not." "So whose tent were you looking for?" "I wasn't looking for anyone's tent. Either would do to be honest at this stage." You certainly feel that didn't come out quite the way you planned it to. "I mean I'm not dating either of your nephews, sir, don't worry." "Why should I worry?" Because the likes of John Thorington do not approve of the likes of you shackling their sons and nephews. "What I meant is that I got scared outside and any familiar face would be welcome right now." "I am familiar." Bloody hell, is he flirting? Of course not, you are obviously misinterpreting.

You both are silent for a bit and then he sits up. You have never realize how massive his torso is. He has the same body structure as Phil, wide shoulders and broad chest, but he is two heads taller. He takes up all room in the tent and you suddenly feel trapped. Nonsense, you intruded on him and can just leave. On the other hand, whatever is out there might still be scarier than John Thorington. You look at him sideways. His extraordinary hair is loose, like a curtain of luscious wavy opulence.

"What did you say about your leg?" His velvet voice sounds irritated. You should assure him it was nothing, politely excuse yourself and leave. But whatever attacked you might still be there. "I was walking back to my tent and felt something grabbing it." He sighs and starts rummaging in his sleeping bag. After a few seconds he finally finds his mobile and lights up the screen. You blink from sudden light and seeing his face, with peevish scowl and drawn brows, so close in front of you. "Let me see." He definitely sounds irritated. You are hesitating. With another exasperated sigh he shoves the phone into your hands and suddenly grabs you under your arms. He pulls you closer, you are practically on his lap, your legs across his, and his deft fingers encircle your ankle. You squeak. "Does it hurt?" "No." You feel like a idiot. He gives you a sideways glance. Then he picks up your leg and examines first the foot and then the calf. The PJ pant is torn and dirty. "You probably tumbled over a root, I don't see any injuries." Your calf in in his palm and he is rubbing it slightly. "Does it hurt anywhere?" "No, it's fine," you suddenly realize that he isn't stopping, his scorching palm is brushing your skin through the hole in the pant.

The silence stretches, and it is quite a tense one. His thumb slips inside the gap in the fabric, and he draws a slow circle on your skin. That is already impossible to misinterpret. You consider leaping ahead and just kissing him, but the game seems to be going by different rules.

One of your arms is wrapped around your middle since you were subconsciously shielding yourself as he was so obviously apprehensive. The other one lies near his palm splayed on the floor of the tent. You slowly reach for his wrist and slide your fingers up the inner side of his forearm. You let your nails scrape the skin slightly, and you think you hear his breathing hitch.

He lowers his face to your neck and for a slip of a second you feel his hot lips on the side of your neck, behind your ear. Then you feel him smile into your skin, goosebumps quickly covering your whole body. You tilt your head allowing him more access. He brushes his nose along your throat. And then suddenly he moves you off his lap. You tense but then realize that he is unzipping his sleeping bag.

It is open and he is lying back, one arm open, another one supporting the flap of the sleeping bag. The invitation is quite clear. You bite your lip and then slip into his embrace. He closes the bag and smirks. "You will have to zip it up if you want to stay warm at night." You push one arm out of it and clumsily pull the zipper as far up as you can.

You two are pretty snug in the bag. Do they come in different sizes? This one seems to allow you both to be pretty comfortable inside, although you are mostly lying on him, pressed into his right side. You gingerly place your right hand on his chest and feel the soft fabric of his henley. He pulls you closer and you place your temple below his clavicle.

The erotic tension of a few seconds ago is gone, and you relax into the heat and fresh grassy smell of his skin. His breathing is even, heartbeat steady. You close your eyes and soak in the moment.

He is an amazing presence, strength and confidence radiating from him. You feel safe and sheltered. You don't want to think of the world outside the warm bubble you are in, you don't want to worry about tomorrow's morning coming and bringing the harsh light over your sleeping arrangements. You breathe him in and understand why they call physical intimacy "to know someone in a Biblical sense." The physical closeness allows you to know a person better than a hundred conversations.

His fingers tread through your hair and you feel him pulling out the pins holding your messy bun together. The dexterity of a surgeon is a magical thing, it allows you to pull out twenty eight pins while a girl's head is weighing your shoulder to the ground. His other hand covers yours on his chest and the thumb is rubbing your knuckles.

The strokes of his fingers are increasingly sensual, and you wonder if he can cause this much hunger inside you by lightly touching your hand with his fingers, what can he achieve with two hands? His mouth? His whole body? You take a shuddering breath and slide your hand from under his. And then you place it on the waist of his shirt and decisively slide it underneath. He sucks in air, and you feel triumphant. You are not a flustered girl he can play with. You splay the hand on his abdomen.

He pulls his torso from under you and rolls over you. Finally! He is deliciously heavy and hot, and he lowers his lips on yours. You have never been kissed like that. He is possessive, passionate, demanding. The cliche of "claiming your mouth" flashes through your mind. He slips his palms under your shoulder blades, and you arch into him. You wrap one leg around his waist and rub your pelvis into him

He groans and moves to your neck. He gives your throat a long scorching lick, and you moan. His hands are on the buttons of your PJ top, and he follows up every opened one with a kiss on your thorax. Your top open, he takes your nipple in his mouth and you claw at his shoulders. His tongue swirls around it and then he slightly bites it. You wrap the second leg around him. Your underwear is drenched, and you just want him inside of you.

He is apparently taking it slow. He is busy with the second breast when your patience snaps. You push your hand between your bodies and squeeze his erection. He hisses and bites hard. Good, enough of this unwavering smug self-control! You press your pelvis into him and cup his face. You force him to look into your eyes and suddenly you feel so powerful. His body on yours, his lips on your skin, his hot cock pressed between you two, it all feels right and you give him a predatory smile. You catch his mouth in a bruising kiss and push his tracksuit bottoms down with your feet. It's a very neat trick you learnt with a high school boyfriend, they never see it coming. You just have to be careful not to jerk them too sharply. He gasps into your mouth, and you close your palm around his cock.

Fucking hell, he is big. Not just big, you think it might actually hurt. But you are so wet and livid with lust that you just might be OK. Anyways, you are not stopping now. "I am on a pill and clean," you murmur in his mouth. "I don't sleep with women without a condom," he is panting and shakes his head. You assume that the long energetic strokes of your hand on his cock are slightly distracting. "Do you have one?" He is breathing through a wave of pleasure that shudders through his body and shakes his head. "You?" "Why would I? I wasn't planning on any adventures." He snorts and then lifts burning eyes at you. "Then we will have to solve our problems separately."

He takes your hand and gently removes it from his twitching cock. Then he catches you mouth and slides his hand into your PJ bottoms. The apt fingers find your clit and he gives it an experimental swirl. You moan and spread your legs wider. Oh, he is good! In most cases you need additional oral stimulation but he makes you come in a few seconds with just one finger in you. Given he has very large hands, you would usually need two and some tongue.

You are panting though your orgasm and he is lazily kissing your neck and collar bones. Your turn. You roll you two over as much as it is possible in the sleeping bag and slide down his body. You are small enough but there is another problem. You will probably faint inside the bag from overheating if you have to give him a blowjob without opening it. But you already hear him unzipping it. How considerate of him!

The task at hand is going to be laborious. His cock is not only large, the width is also beyond impressive. It has a whimsical curve, as if it is slightly pointing right and you giggle. He lifts a brow at you. You just can't help it and tilt your head to match the angle. He drops his head on the ground and chuckles. Some snarky remark dies on his lips when you take him into your mouth and give him a long strong suck. He clenches his fists.

In a few seconds you have him completely unraveled and growling through his teeth. You are taking him deep into your throat, bobbing your head and massaging his testicals. When you were sixteen you could not understand why your friend Thea was so enthused when in some medical journal you read that squeezing your thumb in your fist apparently turns off you gagging reflex. Now you find this information very useful.

He pushes you off him and comes with a loud groan. You help him through it with your hand, pressing your lips to his hipbone, and he is taking shaky breaths. He is coming down from his high and starts laughing. It is your turn to cock a brow. He rubs his face with his large palms and speaks in a shaky raspy voice, "I don't know why I'm laughing. I guess it's just been awhile." He grabs a towel from a bag nearby and cleans up. You are waiting till he pulls his bottoms up, and then he opens his arms for you again. You nest into his side and he zips up the sleeping bag. Then he lifts your face with his finger and looks into your eyes. You smile to him and then can't hold back a yawn. He smirks and kisses you tenderly. He is still smiling into the kiss but you already drift off.

**A/N#2: Somehow in my head Phil (Fili) has actually been genuinely in love with her for all these years. Since she rejected him from the start and he doesn't really know how to be in relationship, a stud as he is, he is staying around as her friend. He silently suffers through her short something with Killian (Kili), endures her occasional one-night stands, but he is still certain she is the one. He either tells him Mom, or she guesses, but that is why she is so welcoming towards Wren and suggests inviting her to their house as often as possible. Cue drama!**


	7. Canvas

**A/N: Not a prompt either, but I do what I want! :)**

You wake up from the intolerable headache, every muscle of your body hurting, and you open your eyes preparing for a searing pain from light hitting your pupils. It doesn't come. The room you are in is dim, heavy curtains drawn on the windows. You press the throbbing temple into surprisingly luscious sheets and breath in.

The first panic wave rises when you realize that as Dolly Parton said "the fragrance on you ain't Old Spice". It is expensive, masculine, tangy. The sheets carry the smell of clean male skin mixed with your own perfume. Fuck.

With relief you realize that you are alone in bed and in the room. You lift the head, and the walls sway. You clearly envision a sweaty hairy medieval guy banging on an anvil in your head. You edge to the side of the bed and peek on the floor. There is your dress, thank you, Thea for the wonderful idea that it is definitely not too slutty. Bra and knickers are there too, and you groan. The stockings in black silky swirls nearby. Shite.

You know you can't drink. You are a ginger, you lot have all kinds of weird chemical relationships with alcohol and medicine. Thus, your strict no drugs policy. And one drink per night. What you are experiencing right now is not a one-drink hangover.

Alright, time to face the music and dance. You pull your clothes on and cringe from the cigarette smell stuck to the fabrics. You stand up and wobble again. Right, first things first, you need to run. You will figure it out later. Maybe you will go straight to a walk-in clinic and check yourself, but right now you need to get to safety.

You try not to think about what happened under these Egyptian cotton sheets. You don't feel any pain though, there are no fluids on your body, you start shaking from the thought, but then you tell yourself that you would have known. If anything, you would hurt all over. Your skin bruises from a slightly enthusiastic poke with a finger. Except the muscle pain from dehydration, you are fine.

You have a choice out of three absolutely identical doors in the opposite wall. What kind of weirdo makes three doors separated by two feet of a wall from each other completely identical? Obviously he knows which one is which, but still it looks like a something from _Solaris_. You quickly scan the bedroom. You can't see much in the dimness but it is all clean lines and perfect order.

And then it dawn on you. It is a woman's place, isn't it? That would make sense. Maybe the smell on the sheets was unisex, your head hurts so much that you are hardly capable of a deep analysis of a fragrance. Everything is arranged perfectly, elegantly, deep brown and cream pastels.

You breath out and pull a door. It is a washroom. You need to flee but you really need to pee too. You flip a switch and stare at yourself in the mirror. Could be worse. Mascara smeared, curls in an orange nimbus, blue shadows under your eyes, but you seem fine. You check the pupils, they are not dilated. You are pasty and freckles stand out in angry orange dots. You clean the mascara with some toilet paper and brace yourself.

You pull the second door and get into a large sunroom. You have to squint and shield your eyes with your hand, but soon enough you can actually look. It is large, a big easel in the middle, a large shelf with art supplies, assorted weird objects on a large oak table. Is that a sword?

Alright, it's alright. Your host or hostess is an artist. It could have been so much worse. A drug dealer, an arms smuggler, a pimp… Artist in an expensive and endlessly organized flat is not the worst. Yet again, Dr. Lecter was a psychiatrist in an exquisite three piece suit. And again with identical doors, this time there are two of them. You are so tired of this lottery.

You exhale and pick one. When you are ready to step towards it, your eye catches the canvas on the easel, and you freeze. Your own naked thigh and buttocks are depicted with an astonishing precision. You know they are yours because you recognise a little constellation of moles on your hip. They are an almost perfect replica of Cancer zodiac, you googled it once. The curve is depicted sensually, erotically, but it is not lewd lust, it is a hymn to a woman. Your body is shown relaxed in deep slumber and your hand is on the sheets near your thigh, fingers slightly curled in a chaste, almost childish gesture. It gives the canvas an overall dreamy and tender ambience.

The artist is definitely a woman. There is no raw desire in it, the lines are soft and reverent. There is no macho dominance, not a single crude stroke. You are frozen in front of it when another door opens and your host comes in.

He is clenching a brush in his teeth, his hands full, a mug with steaming tea in one, and a plate of biscuits in another. He is pushing the door with his hip and halts on the threshold at your sight. You take back all your words regarding the non-macho thing. He is large, widely build, probably six two or three. From your five two and a half he seems like a giant bear, with the broad shoulders, massive arms and the most astonishing mane of hair you have ever seen. And you have seen a lot of hair in your life. You are a hairdresser after all.

The brush is clenched between the white even teeth, and it looks like he is snarling. Then his brows fly up and you can almost see the mental process in his head. He can't take it out because where will he put the tea then? To spit it out? To put the plate of the floor? He looks at the floor, then at you, and then he shocks you by slightly leaning towards you and waggling his head. He makes a funny whiny noise and pushes his face a bit more towards you, obviously trying to convince you to take the brush.

You brain goes into overload, and you see your own hand stretching and taking the brush out of his mouth. "Oh cheers! I thought I'll stay there forever, would you help me with these too?" He hands you the plate with the biscuits. The voice is molasses, low, raspy, woman's flat my ass.

It is obviously his though. He is dressed in a pristine beige cashmere jumper and dark jeans. He is also bare foot and somehow that feels very indecent. He smiles to you lopsidedly and cocks a brow, "So what do you think?"

You think you want to fall through ground and burn in the core of our planet. "About what?" Your voice is scratchy. "The painting. I would have asked for your permision, love, but you were unresponsive. Thought if you hate it I'll just paint something over it." "Don't!" You yelp and bite your lip. What in the name?.. Who cares what he does with it! Run now, Wren!

Suddenly his face is very close to yours and you flinch away. "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you." He raises the hand unoccupied with tea in a mock surrender. "Just wanted to see your pupils, the roofie should be out of your system by now." "What?!" "You don't remember anything, do you?" He shakes his head. "You were in the club yesterday, and someone slipped you a roofie." Somebody? The thought is probably written on your face. "Not me! I found you sitting on the bonnet of my car couple blocks from there. I guess you escaped the fate worse than death. I had to do something with you." "And taking me to your place was the best option how?" You ask scornfully. "You insisted," he is smirking and sips his tea. The nerve in him! "And did I insist on taking off my clothes too?" "You did it yourself. And I have to say, with flare!" His smile is wide, white teeth gleaming, eyes hiding behind thick black lashes. "Don't you remember anything?" "I remember going to the club, with Thea. Oh bollocks, I need to call her, she is probably crazy worried!" You look around in search of your phone. He leans on a tall stool and takes another sip. "You didn't have a purse last night, and I don't think you can hide a phone in that dress." He points at the tiny scrap of material hugging your body. "Here, take mine."

Two things stand out when you take it from him. He has amazing hands, large, wide palm, just the type you like, the ones that can encircle your waist, and your buttocks can fit into these hands perfectly. What the hell is wrong with you? Second thing, he has a picture of his family as the background on his phone. The two grey haired people in the picture are definitely his Mom and Dad, family resemblance uncanny, they are laughing to the camera, hugging two smiling teenagers. "My nephews," his voice is laced with affection and pride. A person with such background probably won't cut you into small pieces and serve you with chocolate sauce, right?

Thea is yelling into the phone. You move it away from your ear a bit. "I already called the police, but they said that you are probably just spending a night with some random guy, and wouldn't listen to me! I told them you don't drink, and that is weird that you were gone, and I had your purse, oh my God, are you alright? Where are you? I'll come pick you up! Wren, are you alright? Whose phone is this? Do I need to bring your bat? Tell me you are alright!" "Thea... Thea... Thea…" She is not listening, an endless shouting and lamenting pouring out of her. You peek at your host, he is smirking and drinking his tea. "Thea, shut it!" You bark and she is finally silent. "I am alright, I think," you peek at him. He lifts his brows. "I am… Where am I?" He gives you the address. "Wait, is that a guy in there? Wren, is it a guy?" "Yes, there is a male person near me, Thea, and I'm fine. I have no money, I can't call a cab, you need to come and get me." He waves his hand to catch your attention and whispers, "I'll pay for your cab." "No, it's OK," you are trying to navigate two conversations with a splitting headache. "Is he asking you to stay?" Thea doesn't sound worried anymore. She is exuberant. "Shut up, Thea," you hiss and turn to him and realize that he is leaving the room. He waves to your dismissively, "I'll be right back." "What is going on in there?" Thea is shouting in your ear again. "Thea, keep it down a bit. I woke up in this flat, there's this guy, nothing happened, he offers to pay for my cab." "Do you want to stay there?" "No! What? Of course not." He comes back into the room with a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. "I don't have a sealed bottle, but I promise it's ibuprofen." His eyes are laughing. "No, thanks. I'm fine." He shrugs. "It's not that!" Why are you reassuring him? "I'm a ginger, we are not good with drugs."

He lifts his eyes at your hair and suddenly his eyes widen. His lips form an "O" and he darts to the table. He grabs a piece of canvas and a palette. "Don't move, just don't move!" He pins it to another smaller easel by the wall. You freeze and see him frantically squeezing paint from little tubes on the the palette. "It is amazing! The light, the ombre..." He is mumbling and the brush is flying.

You suddenly realize that Thea is yelling in the phone. "Wren, what a hell is going on there?" "I don't know..." "Please, please," his voice is frantic, "I just need a few minutes, maybe half an hour," he is gesturing like crazy with his left hand while the right one is darting around the canvas, "I'll pay you… for the cab and the modeling… Just don't move, bloody hell, that's the one, that's it!" His chest is heaving, he is biting his bottom lip and his hand is dashing onto the canvas and back to the palette. "Please, just don't go..." You don't think he even realizes that you are a real person.

"Thea, I'm fine. He is going to pay for my cab and I'll just go home…" "Don't move!" He barks and you decide to ignore his mad rambling. "...and have a nap. I'll call you later, OK?" "Is he hot? Wren, is the guy hot?!" "Bye, Thea."

You hang up and look at him. Somehow he smeared some orange paint across his forehead. Is your hair really that colour in this light? What are you supposed to do now? He is frowning now, concentrated on the canvas. He waves at a couch by the window without looking at you. "You can sit there. Have some tea," he mutters absent-mindedly, completely absorbed into his work. You shrug and take his mug and the plate.

You finish the tea and biscuits, he is still working. You have had plenty time to scrutinize him, and he is quite something. A stubborn, heavy jaw in a stark contrast to a soft, sensual line of lips. Blazing blue eyes, thick black brows… He constantly jerks them up, frowns, bites the opposite end of his brush, curses under his voice. There is something exceptionally warm and comforting in his presence, though he is bursting with activity. You start feeling sleepy.

You wake up much later, covered with a quilt. He is still working, this time on a bigger easel, on the initial painting of your naked lower half. Orange is gone from his face. The sleeves of the pullover are rolled up, and you admire the muscular forearms, covered with black hair. He shifts his eyes and sees that you are awake. He gives you a distracted smile and returns to the canvas. "I'll be right there. I ordered Chinese, it'll be here in ten." Is he always so nonchalant about everything? Frenzied and excited about the art, and then back to the cool assurance of a big cat. Incredible...

"Do you want a shower?" He is not even looking at you, like at all! "The washroom is through the bedroom." You climb off the couch and walk back into the bedroom. You fleetingly wonder where he slept last night, and then walk to the bathroom. Everything in it is pristine, colour-coordinated, and… beige. You happily shed the clothes and climb the shower booth. It is very big. He is obviously large, but it looks more like it is intended for two. The hot water is plummeting on your head and shoulders , and it is a bliss! An array of shampoos, conditioners and soaps is impressive. No products for a woman, but all high quality and not chosen randomly. You pick and choose, and soon feel like a human being again.

You hear a loud knock at the door, and a sudden panic floods you. You are bonkers, completely bonkers! What are you doing in some random guy's shower?! You suddenly can't breath and press your back into the shower wall. "Hey, you alive there?" His voice sounds genuinely concerned, and you feel panic subsiding. "The food is here, and if you need clothes there are some shirts in the drawers under the sink. Should be long enough for you." "Thanks," you try not to sound too panicked. "De nada," he is laughing at you.

The mentioned shirts are probably his comfy time clothes, they are soft and faded, and you pick the one that seems the longest. It goes down mid thigh. The colour is hardly flattering but it is not like you are on a date.

You step back into the sunroom and the delicious smell of the Chinese take-out tickles your nose. The square white boxes are already arranged on the bar island, chopsticks, plates, napkins, two glasses of water, coasters… Coasters? Really? You shake your head in disbelief and look around. Where is your host? "Hello?" Bollocks, you realize that don't even know his name. There is something seriously wrong with you.

You jump up from surprise when you hear his voice from the bedroom behind you. You were just there! Oh, wait, the third door. You trot back to the bedroom and open the third door. Quite predictably it is a walk-in closet. Quite unpredictable is your host standing in it bare-chested. You freeze and gape. He is holding a black tee in his hand and waits for you to find your bearings. You will your body to move and step back, but not a single muscle in you moves. "You have to decide, love, either in or out!" His low murmuring tone is as suggestive as it gets. You jump up and dart back in the bedroom slamming the door. You hear his rollicking laughter behind it.

You return to the sunroom and plop on a chair by the bar island. You drop your head on your arms on the counter. Your ears and neck are burning from humiliation. Just when you started thinking that this day could not get any weirder, you managed to ogle the guy in the worst possible circumstances. You are screwed, deeply and irrevocably. Because you have a kink. And unfortunately, it is a muscular, hairy, broad male chest.

And his is a dream! It is so glorious, it is simply perfect! The best you have seen for a while, and now you won't be able to look at him even when he is fully dressed. You will know it is there, the hot hard plains of muscles just asking you to bite and kiss, and to scratch with your nails, the thick black hair to tread your fingers through… Oh, your private parts are on fire. And all this majestic epitome of chest perfection is attached to a flat stomach with a glorious strip of black hair going down… Stop, Wren, you are digging your own grave! Do not think about that, don't think about the belt and the buttons… Oh, and the buttons, not a zipper!.. Bloody hell...

You hear rustling, and he comes back to the room. You sit up and school your face into a neutral expression, and you two start eating. To say that it is awkward is an immense understatement. At least for you, nothing apparently unsettles this one. He is thoroughly enjoying his food and isn't trying to start a conversation. You keep your mouth shut as well and concentrate on your dry Schezuan beef. You also avoid looking anywhere but your plate.

You are especially avoiding looking at his jaw when he is chewing, at how his throat is moving when he drinks water, and most of all you are decisively not looking at his clavicles that are so promisingly peeking from the collar of his V-neck! It just had to a be a V-neck! Damn your complete inability to resist a husky male chest! If it is good, and this one is superb, then you start noticing the rest. And everything about him is just delectable!

You could probably seduce him. It's not like he is not attracted to you, he wouldn't be feeding you dinner and flashing toothy grins at you. You are probably sort of a bowl of fruit for him, something to arrange and transfer on canvas, but he is still a man of flesh and blood. But do you want it? Do you want him to wake up the next morning with the same distracted face and politely walk you to the door courteously calling you a cab and paying for it?

You imagine it so clearly that all you lustful daze is suddenly gone and you drop your chopsticks. "Are you alright, love?" You lift your eyes at him with an easy gleeful smile, the spell broken. Ha, you can even look at him and do not feel like you are going to combust. Well, may be a little. "Yeah, sorry. Just lost in my thoughts." Your appetite is back and you pick up a dumpling from a box. "These are actually very good, where is it from?" "Dragon's Bowl," he is looking at you scrutinizingly, obviously having noticed the change in your mood. "Hm, never been there. Do they have dim sum?" "I don't believe so." You take your glass and drink it in a few big gulps.

You pick up another dumpling and bite into it. The juice starts running down your hand and wrist, and you lick it. He makes a throaty growling noise and jumps up on his feet. The chair falls behind him with the bang. You freeze and stare at him in confusion. "Stop it!" He snarls, and he actually looks angry. "Stop what?" You are completely confounded. "I am not made of stone, I can be a gentleman for only that long." It still doesn't seem to register with you. What's he all about? "Decide what you want and stop playing with me."

Where is the relaxed facade? Where are smug smirks and the cocked brow? He is taking short sharp breaths, his fists are clenched, and his stunning eyes are blazing. Red spots are blooming on his cheekbones, nostrils flare. "Either you call yourself a cab right now, or you are getting that glorious little bum of yours off that chair and march into the bedroom!"

Bloody hell, he is turned on! That's him being randy! Wow, that is at least partially terrifying. It's like poking a bear with a stick for a while and then noticing that the cage isn't locked! Except you weren't poking, you didn't do anything! The shirt isn't even that short, and it's not like he hasn't seen it all before!

You contemplate your choices, and slowly slide off the chair. "I'll take the bedroom option." He actually growls like an animal and pounces.

**A/N#2: Who wants part two of this? :)**


	8. Canvas (part 2)

He scoops you up in his arms bridal style and strides to the bedroom. All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and savour the trip. He kicks the door open and gets to the bed in a few wide steps. He throws you, though pretty carefully, on it and kneeling on the edge pulls his tee off in a swift movement. You scoot back to the headboard and enjoy the view.

He licks his lips and his greedy scorching eyes are roaming you. Oh, that is simply delicious! You get on your knees too and jerk your shirt off as well. Or should you, say his shirt? You are very glad that you dressed up a bit yesterday. The black lacy bra and thongs went well with the dress, and even better they will go with the current happenstances. The feral smirk on his lips is sending shivers down your spine.

He unbuttons his jeans and getting up for a second he sheds them off. My, you thoughts have gone there before, but even considering his height and broad build that definitely exceeds the expectations. And boxer briefs are definitely the icing on the cake. You smile and beckon him closer with your index finger.

No need to ask twice apparently, he leaps ahead and wrapping his arm around your waist he pulls you down and underneath him. He stretches near you balancing on his elbow, his other arm still under you, and his lips are finally on yours.

All possible deities have mercy on you, your toes curl and goosebumps cover your whole body. Hot, hot, hot! He is enthusiastic, creative, and very, very skillful. His lips are warm and his tongue is soon caressing your upper lip, opening your mouth. You busk in the caresses, sucks and nips, but then your usual fervour flares up and you press your palms into his chest. Oh, give me that, give me, give me!

You dig your nails into his skin and he groans. "You are a kinky little one, aren't you?" He sounds very pleased. You push him harder, and he submits. He rolls on his back and you straddle him. Finally, the glorious solid pectoral muscles, explicit clavicles, the valley of coarse black hair, lusciously going down his sternum from a suprasternal notch, and yes, you know all the anatomical terms for the parts, you do your research. Did you mention the kink?

You lower your head and lick his neck. He drops the head back and his large palms squeeze your buttocks. Finally, you've been trying not to imagine this since you saw his hands when he handed you his phone. He bucks his hips up. Down boy, you haven't had your fill yet.

Nails scratching, lips sucking, teeth nipping, and in a few seconds he is panting under you. You snake one of your hands lower and press it into his immensely impressive erection. He hisses and then your bra clasp springs open. That is quite a skill he is showing there! Exactly how many of these a week does he open? You are too far gone to care.

He catches the back of your head with his palm and pulls your lips to his. God, he tastes amazing! You moan into his mouth. He tears his away and rasps, "Do you want to stay up there or should I lead?" "I don't like to be lead," you quip and slide your hand into his pants.

His pelvis jerks into your palm and his hand flies to the bedside table. He is battering a handle of a drawer and finally grabs it. He pulls and yanks it out from the glides. The drawer is left in his hand and the contents scatter over the floor. He lifts his head and looks at the motley objects littering the floor. Laughing, he throws the poor piece of furniture on the floor and looks at you. "Do you mind finding a condom there?" Is there anything that rattles him?

Squeezing his hips tighter with your legs to hold yourself in place, you bend over and stretch down to rummage through the disarrayed junk. Mentally thanking the yoga instructor that always told you that you would need these inner thigh muscles one day, you comb through mints, pencils, scrap paper, a pair of watch and… a glasses case? Wow, this kink has to be stored for later. A condom is peeking from under a side table, and you have to move from him to reach it. You stretch and bend over the edge of the bed, and then his warm weight is pressed into your legs and you feel his lips on your bum. The tongue draws intricate swirls on your skin. "You are distracting me." The beard tickles your cheek and by now you have learnt to recognise that as the feeling of him smiling into your skin. You've never had a bearded man before.

He bites your buttock, you squeak and kick him slightly. He is chuckling, and you finally reach the square wrapper. You blindly shove your hand towards him. He gets the message and pulls you up on top of him again.

You kiss his chest again but quickly start sliding lower. Maybe some more of the hunky goodness next time, you have somewhere to be now. He lifts his hips and his pants fly across the room behind you. You appraise and thank the generous laws of genetics!

His cock is a work of art. Long, thick, smooth, the colour and the curve exquisite, it is anything a girl can dream of. You close your lips around it and can't control a moan. There something about his skin that drives you completely berserk. Whether it is the fresh grassy flavour, or the heat, but you are losing your mind. You dip your head lower and he growls. The noises you have heard from him so far are so salaciously animalistic that you want to find out what else is there in his repertoire.

You suck harder and he is clutching the sheets. His thick head slips deep into your throat and you tense the muscles of your esophagus. "Fuck!" He cries out and his hips jump up. You choke and have to let him go. You lick your lips and cock your brow, "If you don't control yourself, you are going to strangle me." He wipes his face with his palm and breathes out. "I think I am past any control at this stage."

He suddenly sits up in an impressive fluid motion and picks you up under your arms. He pulls you to lie over him and asks, "Up or down?" "Huh?" "Top or bottom, love?" Choices, choices…

And then you really surprise yourself, "Bottom." You definitely always prefer top. You cherish the control and the dominance. You are also small, and more often than not you feel slightly suffocated. This untamed beast is going to crush and mash you! What are you doing, Wren?

He rolls you underneath him and slides his palms under your shoulder blades. His lips are on your stomach and his talented tongue is drawing some searing twirls on it. To think of it, he might actually be drawing something particular. He pulls your thongs off and they fly in the general direction of the rest of the clothes. After nuzzling your stomach, which you think is adorable, he dips his tongue in your curls. You gasp and raise your pelvis. His hands are on your buttocks and he lifts you even higher. And then he proceeds with the best cunnilingus you have ever received. The technique, the thoroughness, the creativity! You come screaming, your hips high in the air, your back arching, your weight on your elbows. You drop your shoulders on the sheets, and he slowly lowers you.

Your vision does not return right away. Blood is roaring in your ears, and you see merry purple dots in front of you. He didn't even use his hands! It was all done with lips and tongue, and you think you will never, never again be satisfied with the pathetic excuses of oral sex that most men manage.

He wipes his beard and smiles to you. "Another minute, love?" Oh, you smug bastard! You grab his ears and pull him up. He guffaws and places a row of hot little kisses up your stomach and sternum. He tilts his head and sucks on your throat. One of his palms covers your breast and the index finger and the thumb caress the nipple. Then he replaces them with lips, shifts his weight on this arm while the other one is caressing the other breast.

You are writhing, delectable shivers running through your spine, and you are not even a big fan of boob action. Then you realize what is different with him. He is careful. Your pale skin is sensitive, it bruises easily, and men tend to grab. He is applying just the right amount of pressure. The pulps of his fingers are warm and gentle, and even if he bites he is considerate. You arch into him and moan.

You think it is time to up the stakes. You blindly find the condom and grab a handful of his hair. You get momentarily distracted by the majesticness of the wavy, silky strands. That's a hell of work to groom this mane! The hair is definitely taken good care of. You shake off the professional interest and pull at the tresses. He lifts his face and you waggle the condom in front of his nose. You receive an already familiar lopsided grin and he shifts up.

He supports his weight above you and you quickly roll the condom out over his cock. You might be fondling him a wee bit on the way. Judging by a low rumble in his delectable chest, he doesn't mind. You wrap your legs around him and he presses into you. His whole body jerks when his tip touches your folds and then he starts slowly pushing in. You hiss. He freezes. The muscles on his arms are bulging from restrain but he doesn't move.

He catches your lips in a surprisingly tender kiss and thenpresses his forehead into yours. You exhale and he starts moving. Your walls stretch painfully and you gasp. He stops again. "Alright, love?" His voice is raspy with strain. You nod and smile. Under your hands you feel his body trembling. That is a hell of a self-restrain and you feel warm gratitude. You lift your face to him and kiss him greedily. He sheaths into you fully, and you cry out softly. That is a bliss!

He slowly rocks his hips and you whimper from the electrical shock running through your body. You dig your nails into his shoulders and breathe out, "Bloody hell!" He hums as if agreeing with your assessment and thrusts more energetically. You grab his splendid backside and sink your nails into his buttock. "More!" He picks up speed, and from there on, it's all deep incisive thrusts and your loud screams.

Under no circumstances you are going to say that at this moment you feel suffocated. You feel exuberant! You meet him midway, lifting your hips from the sheets, and you feel like you are being worshiped. Each push of his hot heavy body into you is an epitome of carnal pleasure. He stretches you to the limit, and your body is on fire. You bury your hands into his luscious hair and caress his nape. His lips are lavishing kisses on your mouth, neck, jaw, even ears. With a high pitch scream you climax, and he follows you in a dead heat.

Your orgasm is perfect, hot and sweet, flooding your senses, singing in your blood. You close you eyes and ride the wave. He is moaning and breathes into your neck. When some feeling returns into your overheated body, you try to move away from his tickling gasps. You shift and your hips jerk. He grounds his pelvis into you harder. "Please don't." You start giggling. Such civilized manners! He chuckles into your neck.

You feel his lips on your skin, and uncontrollable shudder runs through you. Your inner walls clench, and he groans. He slowly pulls out with a hiss and rolls on his back. He is sprawled on his enormous bed and stares at the ceiling. You turn on your side and look at him. The thick lush lashes flutter, and he closes his eyes. How did you not notice the marvellous nose before? You lift your hand and run the tip of your finger down the gorgeous bridge of his long nose. The corners of his mouth twitch but he stays still.

"Where did you sleep last night?" For the love of you, you don't know what makes you ask it now. He slightly opens one eye and looks at you sideways. "In the studio on the sofa. Though it wasn't easy, I have to say," he smirks, "You were making a compelling case." That does not sound good. He turns his face to you. Now you are blushing, Wren? You just shagged the guy from soup to nuts and now you are feeling shy? "What did I do?" "You stripped, rather gracefully for a drugged person by the way, and offered me, and I quote, a night of unforgettable passion, no strings attached."

You tense. Not that you were imagining a white dress, a three-tier cake and church bells, but isn't it a bit too early to tell you to kick rocks? He is looking at you with a lazy smile on his lips but then notices your stiff posture. He frowns in confusion and says, "I swear I took the sofa. I checked on you later, thus the painting, but I didn't try anything funny." He thinks it is supposed to cheer you up, apparently.

You sit up and pull the sheet over your chest. Suddenly you don't feel like an all-powerful sex goddess from just a few minutes ago, but a cheap slut. You had one-night stands before, no biggie. Why do you feel like crying now? What's wrong with you? OK, Wren, you can do it, you had drama classes at uni.

You smile to him and climb off the bed, in a toga of a sheet. "I just need a minute on a washroom," your tone is even and friendly. Good, you are fine, breath through it, just walk to the bathroom, steady steps, Wren, don't rush it.

You close the door behind you and sink to the floor. What is going on? You are in a full scale panic mode, breathing laboured, pulse throbbing in your throat. Where is this coming from? It is not that hard, you know the drill, you get dressed, he calls you a cab, doesn't take your number, promises to call. Before today the scenarios were pretty much the same. Mediocre to decent sex, slightly awkward aftermath, you pick up your clothes from the floor and go home, since you don't bring them to your place after all, so that you have the freedom to leave any moment. You pretend to have had fun and feel relieved. Or if you have had fun, you still give a fake number if they ask and go on with you life. Easy peasy. What's different this time? The sex was great, that's a given, still not a reason to feel like he pulled your soul out of you and stomped on it repeatedly. You chose to stay, you had fun, now get up from his floor and go home.

You splash some cold water on your face and bite your lip. The dress is crumpled on the floor where you threw it before the shower, and you pick it up. You plaster a friendly smile on your face and step out of the bathroom. He is sitting on the bed, obviously having cleaned up and is playing with your earring. Your hand flies to your ear. "I am going to need that, please," you are all amicability and politeness. You pick up your bra from the floor and stand in front of him. You stretch your hand for the earring and keep your face pleasantly benign. He closes his fist around it and looks at you. He is not smiling.

"I would like to draw you more." You'd rather cut off your legs than ever come back into his flat. "Sure, you should call me sometime, I'm sure I can find some time for it." You feel you will start crying in t minus three minutes. You see your knickers peeking from under an armchair and grab them. Then you turn around to go to the bathroom, but he jumps off the bed and follows you. Are you supposed to get dressed in front of him? You suddenly feel that there is no force in this world that can make you unwrap yourself in front of him from the sheet that you are, frankly speaking, clutching to your chest. "Can I have some privacy, please?" You attempt to sound like it is a light joke but your voice sounds panicked. He scrutinizes your face. For a second you think he is going to refuse, and what are you to do then? But he pushes his body from the wall he is leaning on and goes back into the bedroom. You breath out and hastily get dressed.

"Can I have your phone, please? For the cab," you are starting to feel nauseated. "It's in the studio." He is back on the bed and he is not looking at you. Just like you predicted before you lost any sense and jumped his bones. Predicted and decided that it was not for you. Isn't Wren a smart girl?

You pick up the phone and stare at the photo. Oh hell, a tear falls on the screen, and you realize if he walks into the room now, you are screwed. There will be no stopping for the pethetic sobs and runny nose. You will be humiliated, he will feel awkward. You drop the phone on the counter and dash towards what you think is the entrance door. Your shoes are on the floor and you grab them. You jerk the door but it's locked. You start tugging on a lock but you seem to be doing something wrong. The cursed knob doesn't move. You feel sobs rising and bite you lip.

"What are you doing?" He sounds vexed, and you press your forehead into the door. OK, last chance to save some dignity. Pull yourself together, Wren. Just get out of the flat and you can cry in the first available corner. Cab will do too. You are still pressing your head into the door and blindly put on your shoes. "Can you please open this door?"

"No," his voice is low. "Open the door." "No." "Open the door damn you!" You swirl around and turn your burning face to him, angry tears running down your cheeks. "Not until you explain what the hell is going on," his face is dark, eyebrows drawn together. You didn't think this face can be so grim. He is glowering, his eyes cold, lips pressed together in a hard line. "I just want to go home." You are pitiful, Wren, plain pathetic.

"Are you in a sudden rush? No time to even call a cab?" His voice is venomous, and you start shaking. And right away you get very, very angry. You have nothing to be ashamed of, you don't owe him any explanations. "Open the door." Good, get angry, fight it, Wren. He shakes his head and comes closer. He stops in front of you, and you shrink away. He is only wearing jeans, buttons still open, and you feel cornered. The heat and anger are radiating from him. "No." "Open it!" You are yelling and he slams his hand into the door near your head. "No damn it!" He is bearing his teeth, his snarl terrifying.

And then he steps back and takes a few deep breaths. You are frozen, with your back pressed into the door. "I am sorry, I shouldn't have," he shakes his head seemingly to clear his mind. He looks at you, you are probably blanched. "I am sorry, really. I have temper. Artistic temperament, and shite," he smiles joylessly. "It's OK," you lick your lips. You are scared to ask him to let you out again.

"I just don't understand what's wrong. Everything was great, we seemed to get along, and now you are running," he does seem lost. What are you supposed to do now, apologise for confusing him? "I am sorry too, it's probably PMS, hormones and stuff." Good approach, Wren, men are scared of female physiology, he will probably push your out of the door himself now. "I honestly just want to go home, it's been a long day."

He gives you a long stare and nods. "You still should call a cab. We can have tea while you wait," he is really trying to be civilized. "Sure." He heads towards the second door and you go back and pick up his phone. "Can you give me a hand here?" You follow him through the second door to a spacious kitchen, all gleaming lights and chrome. It looks like another picture from a home renovations magazine. He is standing by a counter his back to you. You cough to let him know you are there but he doesn't turn. "Yes?"

"I don't want you to go," his voice is quiet. "Sorry?" He turns around and you see a set jaw and dark eyes. "It doesn't have to end like this. We can make it work." "Work?" You are so confused that you just parrot what he says. "Do you have someone?" He shakes his head dismissively, "Doesn't matter. I'm sure I can do better." "What?" "Do you have a boyfriend?" he presses on. He is imposing even from another end of the kitchen. "No. I don't have anyone. I wouldn't sleep with you if I did." "Great, less work for me. You should stay," he is calm and collected now, and you suddenly feel dizzy. "Maybe spend a couple days here, get to know me. It'll be worth it." He is absolutely serious! And insane apparently. "What?" "What do you have to lose?" Does he seriously expect an answer to this? He gets increasingly irritated. "Listen, we obviously click. The sex is great, which is rare on its own. But don't tell me you don't feel how different it is. I'm not ready to give it up. We should give it a go."

Right… You head feels empty, you literally have nothing to say. "Oh sod it, say something. I'm baring my soul to you here." That actually stirs you out of your stupour. "You told me that we click and that the sex was great. Hardly bearing your soul in my opinion," you sound peevish. You feel peevish. And ecstatic, but he doesn't need to know about it. "Damn it, what do you want me to say?!" He rubs the back of his neck in aggravation. He is obviously not used to being emotionally compromised. He is flustered and you find it adorable. Adorable, Wren? Are you a fourteen year old with a crush? "We'll be great together, it just makes sense. I'm sure you feel it too, so let's do it." It's like he is buying a car! "Well?"

"You can start with your name," you hold your positions. "Didn't interest you before. Are you staying?" He starts moving closer. "Of course not, you are obviously bonkers. You just offered me to stay in here for a few days and get to know you." You think you might be smiling way too wide. "I stand corrected, it is a great plan." You have to press your palm into his chest to keep some space between your bodies. "And am I supposed to wear your shirts this whole time?" "You won't wear anything," he is murmuring now and two large hands lie on the counter on your sides. "I have a job." "Hm..." he is humming unconcerned and lowers his lips to your neck. You press both palms into his chest. It is purely symbolic, because there is no way in hell you could stop this mass from advancing if he didn't want you to. He halts and peers into your eyes. You are giving him a stern look.

He sighs and straightens. "What do you want to know? It's John, thirty eight, born in April, parents in Manchester, one sister, allergic to shellfish. I paint. Occasional shag, nothing serious for a while. Alright?" He seems to be convinced that the deal is done. "Aren't you going to ask anything about me?" "Not really. I know everything I need."

You place your palm on his quickly approaching lower half of the face. The beard tickles your skin. "Seriously? Like nothing? Are my tits and bum all that interest you?" He predictably drops his eyes in your cleavage. "No, but I already know everything I need." "Really?" He straightens again and looks down at you with laughing eyes. "You are sexy, but not a slut. You are fun but you have principles. You watch a lot of _Doctor Who_ and you are either a hairdresser or work with fabrics." What?! "Your nails," he picks up your hand and rubs his thumb on your knuckles. "Short, and slightly coloured." He kisses the tips of your fingers, and you understand that he won. "I don't watch _Doctor Who_." "Of course you do," his seals the deal with a kiss. You do.


	9. Breastfeeding

**A/N: Yay, the prompts are getting more challenging! :) This one is for those of you who wanted Thea and Fili to end up together in "Bombur." It's short but I like it anyways! :)**

"How long can it take? It is a very small baby!" Killian is leaning on the wall and pouts. "You don't have to stay here, go wander around," Phil is rummaging through the diaper bag. "Yeah, and then I will have to run around the mall looking for you guys. No, I'm staying here and will just wait. His stomach is probably a size of a plum. He will be full in no time." "I wouldn't hope for that," you are laughing at male ignorance. "He might take his time and savour the meal." Killian freezes, lost in his thoughts. Phil smacks his brother at the back of his head. "Stop thinking about my girlfriend's breasts." "We are standing in front of a nursing room, you prick! How do you expect me to think about anything else?" Phil gives him another smack. "Where is Uncle anyways?" "He is getting Wren a chai latte," Phil finally finds a burp cloth. You think you hear Killian muttering "whipped" under his breath. You smack him too. "Ow!" "Don't be such a baby." Phil knocks at the door. "Babe, do you need a burp cloth?" "No, we are fine, almost done," Thea's voice is cheerful, "I'm starving now." Killian perks up. "Me too." "Nobody cares," Phil is zipping up the bag. John walks up to you with your cup. "We are almost done," you take it gratefully. He hums and leans on the wall near you. "How long does it normally take?" "Depends," Phil yawns and rubs his eyes. "Last night it just went on and on." You smirk and turn to John. "See these bags under his eyes and overall half-conscious disposition? That's you in three months." He smiles and pecks your lips. "Can't wait for it.'


	10. Sweet

**A/N: For lamje. Thank you for the prompts! The smutty one for "swimming" is under construction :)**

W:

"Wren, you have to go and see him. You will be fine, he is just so sweeeeeet! An absolute sweetheart! really, a sweetie pie!" Thea's voice is all lilting and melodic. Slightly dreamy too, which means Dr. Thorington is probably a hottie. "Thea, I don't care if he is as sweet as honey sprinkled with edible ball bearings! I'm not going to your voodoo doctor." "Wren, he is not a voodoo doctor, the whole world goes for acupuncture these days. It's a centuries old medical practice!" "Needles, Thea, needles! Have you forgotten my fear of needles?!" "Wren, you can't turn your head. You have been staying home, probably in the same position, of three days now. May be it's time to toughen up and get some help." "I'll think about it." "No, none of that. I'll give you their number and if you don't go today, I'll drag your sorry ass there tomorrow myself." "Don't insult my ass..." You grumble, surrendering to the inevitable. "We both know I love your bouncy little bum. Now, are you going or not?" "Alright, I'll go see your sweet, sweet Dr. Thorington."

T:

The day is shite. It is bloody pish! If another pillock comes and says that he just needs massage and needles but is not going to do anything about his poxey weak muscles and disgusting diet, so you just need to fix him quickly, you are going to smash a vase onto his head. Or if another chavvy bleached chick comes with a bag of candies in her purse and asks for needles to lose "a couple pounds" you will just jump out of the window. Manky job, manky town, barmy muppets!..

W:

The office is nice and a bit too posh to your taste. The receptionist is as haughty as the Queen's corgis. Or is it because you just feel that all Brits are haughty? She might not even be British, maybe it's just Thea's sweetheart John Thorington is a Limey. She leads you to a pristine room and you climb on a table hissing from the pain in your neck. Why noone ever thinks about shorties when they make these? It's like PhysEd in the sixth grade all over again. When you are finally perched on the table, you feel like an idiot, with your feet dangling like those of a five year old on a bus. The door opens with a bang to the opposite wall and the sweetheart Dr. Thorington storms in.

T:

Great, another one of these hippies! You wonder if she is here to talk about energy streams surging through her body or her third chakra is clogged. The plonker plastic square glasses, short, almost shaved sides of her head, longer strands on top. What kind of a moron cuts such hair? It's silky, wavy and the brightest orange you have ever seen. It would look so nice falling on her shoulders. Although she is probably a man hater and does it to prove that she has unconventional understanding of beauty. Like the other hundreds of them, muppets.

W:

"G'day, what can I do for you?" He probably has a very nice voice, except he is snarling through clenched teeth. "Um… Hello?" He lifts his eyes at you. The thick black brows are drawn together and nostrils flare. Those are very, very beautiful eyes. "So, what seems to be bothering you?" He sticks his long nose back into your chart. "My neck hurts and I can't turn my head."

T:  
Overdid yoga, didn't we? Probably after a three day cleanse and talking to trees. She has nice eyes though, big, brown, a smile hiding in them. Sure, John, it is exactly what you need. Getting all hot and bothered over a pretentious bird who is also a patient!

W:

"Turn to your right." Is he kidding you? You just said you can't. You are glaring at him but he doesn't even look up. The pause stretches and he finally lifts his eyes at you. "I can't. It doesn't turn either way. And it hurts." He sets the chart near you on the table and gets up. That explains the height of the table! God, he is huge!

T:

She has an exquisite neck, long and graceful. The jaw bones are delicate, skin pale and ethereal. Bollocks, are you getting randy over touching a woman's throat? Then you definitely chose a wrong profession, you tosser. "What happened?"

W:

"I don't know. I guess I just moved clumsily, and it sort of pulled, and it was very painful." He is looking at you with a very annoyed face. Did he expect a precise diagnosis? Damn it, Jim, I am Botanist, not a doctor! "Where were you when it sort of pulled?" Can his tone be more sarcastic?

T:

She chews on her lip, and is that a blush? "I was lying down... On my bed... On my back…. And I stretched my arms above my head, and it sort of happened." Bloody fuck, you did not need this visual! You move away from her cautiously. Blimey, she smells nice. Can she tell that you are holding your breath? She swallows, and the gentle throat moves.

W:

Can he tell that you are super embarrassed right now? Maybe not, since he buried his nose into your papers again. He looks even more pissed now. In the normal sense "pissed", not British "pissed". The jaw is set, and muscles move on the sides of it under the thick black beard. You are not much for facial hair, but that's one hell of a fine beard. Maybe he won't ask and you won't have to tell him that you were reaching for an Oreo when it happened.

T:

"Where you participating in any physical activity prior to it?" Sure, tell me how you were shagging some vegan coffee shop barista, who is definitely the next Kerouac. Or whatever the rebellious youth reads these days. "I was biking that morning, might have been slightly dehydrated from it, to think of it…" Is it some new term for bonking that you are not familiar with?

W:

He lifts his unbelievable eyes at you. "Biking?" "Yes, from the university. But it's just a city bike, nothing hardcore, not the Tour de France thing." You try to gesture the handlebars of a race bike in the air. He looks peevish and confused. And then he stares at your hands frozen mid-air.

T:

"What were you doing at the University?" Great, it sounded like you doubt she has enough brain cells to have any business there. "I mean, did you lift anything heavy?"

W:

"No, I just water flowers, the can is rather small." Great, it sounds like you are a janitor! Not that there is anything wrong with being a janitor, but aren't doctors famously snobbish about people's education?

T:

Alright, John, pull yourself together! Sod it, just do the exam and put the needles in. She obviously pulled it and you just need to loosen the muscles and nerves. Bollocks, her skin and elegant shoulders feel so good under your hands. Your fingers slide on her nape and she suddenly closes her eyes. "Does it hurt?" The giant eyes fly open and she blushes furiously. "No." You see the blush spreading down into her cleavage, and you just can't do it anymore.

W:

You are melting under his hot palms, your eyes close, and it takes all your concentration to stop your chest from heaving. And there you always thought it is a cliche from romantic novels and an Elizabeth Bennet type of thing. He is standing between your spread legs, and all you can think of is wrapping them around him and grabbing the collar of his white shirt. You can clearly imagine jerking his shirt open and the buttons scattering around the room. He suddenly stops touching you and practically jumps back from you. No, please, come back!

T:

"I am referring you to Dr. Slovak in the _Meridian Clinic_." That's the end of your self-control and you clench your teeth. Give up, John! Just accept it, you are screwed, there is no point in fighting it!

W:

What?! "Sorry?" "I am referring you to a different doctor. I would like to ask you out and it is against doctor-patient relationships ethics." He blurts it out in a very angry tone. As if you insulted him and now he is telling you to get out. The meaning of his words doesn't reach you brain right away. "You are asking me out?" He looks at you under the frowned brows. He looks like that grumpy dwarf from Snowhite, "Yes."

T:

"OK." She is smiling and her shapely legs with adorable tiny feet are dangling. Blimey, she is gorgeous! You are fighting the urge to touch the short orange fluff above her ear. There is only one thing left to sort out. "So how exactly did you sprain your neck?"

W:

Shit.


	11. Dive into the Blue

**A/N: I was given a prompt "swimming" and this happened :) it is not exactly swimming, and not smutty as it was supposed to be. So I'll just leave it here and will think about "swimming" some more**

Everyone freezes, and then van Buuren picks up the crowd and bounces it around the club. The bodies lifted, vibrating, hands and arms receive jolts and send them to the spines. And up and through!... You arch your back and lift your face to the myriads of stars there, behind the dark roof, where the universe is calling you. And down! Everybody drops and you let the rhythm clench at your heart and whirl you into the neverending high!

A face materializes in front of you out of the dimness of the club, and you smile. The guy has extraordinary eyes, bright blue and laughter is rollicking in them, like the little tickles of flirty silver fish in a spring. He moves like a drop of mercury, surprising grace in the wide shoulders and muscular chest. You bite your lip and lift your arms above his shoulders. He moves closer, and you let this moment decide the destiny of this night. He keeps an electrifying inch between your bodies, and you smile in approval. You are moving, together but not too close, and the rhythm is pumping through your veins. You synchronize and share the bliss of movement.

Later you are buying your own drink and just can't stop appreciating the eyes. They cyan, cerulean, carolina, celeste and cobalt. In the everchanging beams of light in the club they are glorious. The rest is fine too, strong jaw, prominent nose, kissable lips, but they are just not doing it for you. You sip your drink and smile to him. He leans in and yells his name. You nod without hearing and finish your drink. Then you hook the collar of his tee with your index finger and momentarily having appreciated the raspiness of thick chest hair you pull him to the dancefloor. He smirks lopsidedly and follows.

The night is ending and you spent the last two hours with him. You hate that it has to end, because now you have to destroy the synchronicity of your bodies that has been pumping endorphins into your blood and break it to him. Dancing yes, anything else no. You step out into the brisk air outside the club and turn to him.

He is smiling, and he is nice and maybe… but no. "Listen," he smirks, damn, the voice is raspy and the most delicious of molasses, but he is just not that, "Listen, love, it was nice but I'm not interested in continuing. Do you want me to catch you a cab or you are staying here?" You are surprised to notice a prickle of indignation in you. You guess it shows. "You are super hot and a glorious dancer, but I have a girlfriend. Just couldn't pass you there, on the floor." You chuckle at yourself, smile widely and reply, "Get me a cab." He courteously opens the door and leans in. "No hard feelings?" "Don't flatter yourself." The cab starts moving and you yell through the open window, "What's your name again?" "Phil."

You bump into each other in a coffee shop couple weeks later. His girlfriend is a six feet two replica of a Barbie. He smiles and you point at her with your eyes, "Tell me she has a wonderful personality." "She thinks China is wee bit to the north of Ireland," you can finally appreciate the Northern accent now. "Well, then your loyalty becomes yet more inestimable." "What can I say, I'm a good guy." "Phil!" a low rumble rolls through the shop and electricity jolts through your spinal cord. "Yeah, Uncle, just a sec." Phil picks up his tray with three cups, and you are pinned to the spot.

"Let me give you a hand with that," the same palatine blue eyes but on this face everything just ticks. The dark instead of blonde, the longer nose, the most glorious jaw. The lopsided smirk just a bit more wicked, the lips that you can just imagine to lick, and black hair peeking out of the collar of a shirt. "Don't leave me there alone," he whispers and then sees you. The black pupils flood the tufts blue irises, and Bob's your uncle.


	12. Swimming

**A/N: Ha, I did it! Somehow this prompt just wouldn't cooperate, it took a while! But here you are! Enjoy! I wrote all I had received! Bring on some more! :)**

It all happened because you didn't listen. Or according to your sister, because you never listen. As if!.. As Di said later on, shaking her head in disbelief, the arguing and heated discussions had been going on for months before the party. You vaguely remember Phil's barking shouts piercing your concentration over breakfast, but the two tossers have been squabbling since the day they brought Killian from the hospital. There might have been additional decibels in Phil's voice, but you had a case.

You had the Case. Everything else had to wait, the merger was all that bloody mattered. Then Killian smashed his car. You handed him the checkbook and the dealer's card. You really had no time to look into it. He wasn't drunk, he was reckless, no one got harmed. He is a pillock, you would deal with it when the case was closed.

The party was black tie in some resort and spa, you even spent extra time choosing the dressing jacket and the cufflinks. You took Phil with you, it's his case too. You discussed with the partners whether to invite your posh bugger of a client to the office for this conversation but propositioning him in the casual circumstances seemed wiser. A birthday party for his daughter-in-law seemed like it would help him to loosen up a bit and pull that stick out of his arse.

Mingling, that is what you are doing when the first shouts erupt. You see Phil's face blanche, and that's when it becomes obvious that you really should have listened. Blood is trickling from the client's son's nose, and people are dragging Killian away from him. Fucking bloody fuck! You see Phil rushing to him. Someone is trying to restrain the blond tosser from punching your nephew's face in return, and you see his father's butthurt face. The nostrils flare, the poxy black brows drawn together, and all this shite! Can he look any more posh?

You help Phil drag thrashing Killian outside. "What is wrong with you?!" You should not be shouting. The boy is obviously pissed, tears in his eyes, looks like a beaten up pup. He is mumbling something unintelligible and starts toppling over. Phil is supporting his weight, "He said she promised to leave the fucker. And Killian thinks he is forcing her to stay." There is obviously some drama going on in here, you really don't have time for this.

You vaguely remember the wife, a redhead, saw her once at some tennis match. Again, everyone wears giant hats and glasses there. You need to fix it. Bollocks! Last thing you need right now is a cougar drama with the client's daughter-in-law. You won't let the bint botch up your merger.

Killian is wailing openly. "She wants to kill the baby. Why would she do that to me?" You freeze and then grab his shoulders. "What did you say?!" He is sobbing. You give him a shake. "Killian, what baby?!" "She said she'll take care of it…" He has his mother's eyes, and you see red. "She didn't even ask me..."

You push him towards his brother and rush back into the house. You storm through the rooms and see the fucker in the patio. He is pressing a napkin to his nose, and a small redhead in front of him is gesturing wildly, her naked back in a red dress, white shoulder blades. He lowers his head and stares at his shoes.

You really should learn to control your temper... but not today. Unlike your nephew, you don't waste time on yelling. You bestow him with a short punch and hear his long posh nose unpleasantly crack with a squelching sound. Then you grab the chick's upper arm. "Listen, missy..."

You don't have time to say anything when she tries to jerk her arm out of your clenching hand, but you are holding her tight, and the momentum twirls you both. You are so angry that you are slightly unstable on your feet, and you both start keeling. At the very last moment you realize that you were standing on the edge of a pool, and the panic comes.

You are falling backwards and pulling her with you. Your back hits the cold blue water, and a silent scream bursts out of you. Your eyes are open, and you see the bubbles rushing out of your lungs. And then the madness hits. You are thrashing, the old forgotten terror kicking in. When you were five, you fell off your father's boat, and water is the stuff of your worst nightmares.

It pours into your mouth, into the throat, lungs. Instead of moving your arms and trying to get out you are taking giant gulps of water, and feel that it is the end. It is all pain and cold. Something red flashes in the water in front of your eyes, and you are pulled up and out by a pair of small strong hands.

People help her to pull you out of the water, and you are coughing on the floor. You think you are going to cough your bloody lungs out, the amount of water you are spitting out seems improbable. She is sitting on the floor near you, and you suddenly realize that she is rubbing your back. "It's alright, you're alright..." She is actually trying to comfort you!

You are finally capable of lifting your eyes from the nauseating piles on the floor. Her eyes are giant, bright hazel colour, and they are worried and warm. "Are you alright, Mr. Thorington? John?" You take a shuddering breath in and nod.

The father is addressing the guests, the son is standing with his head tilted back, another napkin pressed to his face, and you are dizzy. Like a chick from a Jane Austen novel, shaky and disoriented. People help you get up, and she is dragging you away. "Common, you need to take the clothes off, you are going to get sick." You can hardly remember where you are.

She pushes you in a room and disappears somewhere. Then she shoves a towel into your hands, and she is gone again. You are standing in the middle of a room like a complete plonker and can't stop shaking. She is back in a tee and jeans. "You haven't even moved!" And she starts dragging your jacket off your shoulders. You let her and her fingers are working on the buttons of your waistcoat.

You come to your senses when she is dragging the shirt off you. "Wait… What are you?..." "It's alive!" Her eyes are warm and smiling. "You had me worried there, Mr. Thorington." She deftly takes the cufflinks out and the wet shirt falls on the floor. She shoves a jumper into your hands. "Common, I'll try to find you a pair of trousers!" "I'm not wearing some bloke's trousers," you are cold and the sweater looks so warm, but you bloody would never!... "They are new, it is a tailoring place," she is smiling. You look around and realize you are in a spacious changing room. She is laughing at your shocked face, "I'll be charging you for the carpet cleaning too."

She disappears again and you pull the jumper on. It is soft, and you promise yourself to shop here later. The door creaks, and you see her hand sneaking in. She throws you a pair of trousers. A small box with, you presume, underwear follows. Everything fits. In a minute a pair of socks smacks you to the head. If she is not looking, how come she hits the target?

Suddenly it seems very funny. And you start laughing. And you can't bloody stop. You sink on a small sofa by the wall and press your palms to your eyes. The laughter, or sobbing, is bursting out, and she is instantly sitting near you, her hot little hand rubbing your nape. "It's alright, alright," and then she pulls you into her, and you bury your face into her neck, her hair wet. The little palm is rubbing your shoulder blades, and you are surprised that you breath easier.

"It's alright… Phil mentioned you were aquaphobic..." You slowly breathe her smell a bit more and then lift your face. "Phil?" "Yeah, we go to pub together, I helped him with the dinner jacket. I'm Wren? Mr. Balinson's assistant? The tailor?" She thinks you are supposed to know who she is. "Wait, you are not her?.." You sound like a moron, and you fancy yourself a lawyer.

"Who her?" "Oropherson's daughter-in-law." "Eva? You grabbed me because you thought I was her?" Then the understanding dawns. "Is it about Killian? Oh, bugger, he doesn't know, right?" She is frowning. "You lost me," you feel much better, think faster, her hot little hand still stroking your spine becomes more distracting. "They separated, she was going to talk to Killian today. Just stayed for the party, for Oropherson's guests," she makes a funny disgusted face, "Posh albino pillock!" You guffaw.

She has exquisite skin, delicate clavicles, and you think you will just say that it was adrenaline, and you weren't thinking straight, though you definitely are. You grab the back of her head and pull her lips to yours. You will let her go as soon as she pushes you away, but you just can't help it. She moans into your mouth and treads her fingers in your hair. Then she practically moves on your lap and bites your bottom lip. You deepen the kiss, and she straddles you. Her lips are soft but she is demanding, and then she pushes your shoulders away. You are panting like after a marathon. "The door doesn't lock here."

You head is swimming, and you just need her, now. She jumps off the sofa and stretches a hand towards you. She pulls you up and drags you into a closet. She locks the door behind her, why do they have locks inside closets? And then she pushes you on a low table with fabric rolls. Some of them fall on the floor, she quickly straddles you. You finally have full access to her lips, and she is divine. The tee and your sweater fly off, she has perky small breasts, they fit in your hand perfectly. The flies unzipped, she jumps off and drags the denim off her. The tiny lacy knickers follow, and you grab her, one hand in her orange curls, another dips a finger in her. She is so wet, that you groan and bite her lip. She pushes her hand in and squeezes your cock. Fuck! Bloody fucking fuck!

And then suddenly she jumps back, clicks the lock and you are alone in the closet, trousers open, your cock sticking out of your fly. What the bloody?.. She tumbles in again, the lock clicks, and she tears on a square package with her teeth. Quick confident movements of her palms, and she is sinking on you. Bugger, she is tight.

She is moving, you are bobbing her on your hips, her hot walls making your groan loudly, and she is tossing her head back, delicate throat under your lips. You seem to be leaving teeth marks, but she is driving you completely bonkers. Soft skin, slender shoulder blades, nails digging in your shoulders. And the sexiest little gasps you have ever heard in your life! She comes with a sob, and you follow in a jiffy. You squeeze your eyes. It's been awhile, and feels like it's never been that good.

She is sagging down, gentle cheek on your shoulder, and now it's you stroking her back. You don't know what to say. You are a lawyer, bugger! Common, you have to have something to convince her to stay. You need to keep her. You need this. Not saying that forever, but then again, why not?.. Sod it! She hardly looks like a trollop that shags clients in this closet every day. Common, ask her out, dinner or something. She'll say yes.

She straightens up and stares directly into your eyes. "Mr. Thorington, I'm asking you out. Properly, like a dinner or something. I want a date," she nods firmly, and a small curl above her eyes bobs. Then she proudly lifts her chin. "I want _**to**_ date. You. And before you say anything," you weren't going to, you are just smiling like a dimwit. "I don't care that you are that poxy super lawyer, and the bloody age difference... I know it is a great idea, and it will be perfect. We will work." She is done and is practically glaring at you. You consider different answers but then you just kiss her. Talking is overrated.


	13. Road Trip

**A/N: I was playing with form in this one but since it turned out to be too difficult to read, I'll try something else :)**

you run down the hill

your feet so much faster than the rest of your body

and your heart skips a beat when you feel like you are too fast

and the grass is swaying beneath you

and sometimes it feels like you will step and there will be no ground

just air

and you will fall

you hear him laugh behind you

and you push forward knowing

he will catch and pick you up

and the blue sky will swirl

and the warmth of his arms

**xxx**

she is sleeping in the car

again

every time since she was a kid apparently

through all their camping trips she is curled in a ball

and you worry that the seat belt is rubbing her gentle throat

and your coffee is cold

and how much you love her

**XXX**

the washroom is very clean

that's a nice surprise

he is frowning reading a label on the bag of crisps

his wallet in his white teeth

why would that turn you on

may be there is motel nearby

what's wrong with you today

that's like fifth time

**XXX**

she is taking photos again

and how many of them will be there

you and her

funny faces

noses too big

and that is a hell of a yard ball

and she is laughing

and you just need to hug her

and she wraps a scarf around your neck

it is not that cold

but she made it herself

**XXX**

his car has always had temper

but we have an agreement

right girl we do

and you will not let me down

because we both just want him to have a great time

and he never had a road trip before

your parents dragged you along all childhood

and that grumpy aunt you visited couple times

but he has that boring posh childhood

and that serious face and a pretentious jumper on the photos

and he is adorable

and the blue eyes are so sad

you will never do that to your child

you wonder if he wants a boy or a girl

damn don't go there

it's too early

and he didn't even propose

although of course he will

it's just his ridiculous ideas

everything has to be proper

and there will be a restaurant

and roses

and candles

but you would agree in a park while feeding ducks

or in bed

or over breakfast

or in a cab

**XXX**

she just makes you happy

and the freckles

and you love her

and it is almost painful sometimes

and you bought the ring

and carry it with you

and you want her children and wake up together every day

like in that stupid movie you watched

and she thought you were staring at scarlett johansson

and you were thinking just about her

it was so sappy that you lied

and agreed that yes her boobs are awesome

and she got angry but tried not to show it

because she still thinks she needs to prove something to you

and she is the smartest person you have ever met

and her legs

and eyes

and she is sleepily chewing what they call an apple fritter

and it is so good

and how can coffee be so cheap and so good

and does everyone play hockey here

probably just a stupid stereotype

like that you would have to only drink tea being a limey

and she makes the best coffee ever

**XXX**

he is sleeping

and you just want to stay here in this bed

and not go anywhere tomorrow

and you happily think that you can

and your feet are cold

and his socks are somehow always warmer

though there is room for a tennis ball in the toes

and where is that damn bag

and is it?

oh hell yes it is

and you really shouldn't open

but you just can't help it

and damn you will have to make a surprised face somehow

and you can never pretend

should you maybe just say something tomorrow

but how do you say something like this

sorry I found the box but nevermind

god you love him

it's not a diamond

all those children and the movie with dicaprio

and it is gorgeous

and why are you crying you silly cow

you knew

**XXX**

"will you?"


	14. Dive into the Blue (Continuation)

**A/N: The prompt was "hammer and nail". Thank you, lamje! But all I could think of was "If all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail", since the Dwarves are so narrow-minded and judgemental. And it's smut! Enjoy, my lovelies!**

"Riley, that's my Uncle John." "It's Wren, and nice to meet." You shake a large solid hand, and it is like sticking a fork into an electric socket. "Likewise," the voice is sinful, a hot wave licks your nape, "Are you joining us?" "Sure, she is," Phil grabs your cup from the counter, and you follow them to the table.

The girl's name is Bri, and you feel like asking where she lost the "anne" part. Then you mentally kick yourself, you are the last person to joke about people's names. She has complicated makeup and a lilting voice. She also definitely does not have a major in Geography. You silently drink your coffee through her musings on "the funny names of the coffee sizes". "So is _venti _very large?" "It's twenty, ounces that is," John's eyes are on you, and you smile to him over the rim of the cup. He licks the cappuccino foam off his bottom lips, and damn, you just imagine nibbling on it. "But then why is _grande grande_? It is big, right? Shouldn't it be ten, like a half of it?" Phil is patting her hand, way too condescendingly to your taste. "They are just being pretentious in three languages," John murmurs and leans back on his chair. "Maybe they think that their clients are too stupid to know better." The insult is veiled, but it is there.

Bri gets it too. She bites her lip and stares into her cup. You get up. "You know what, I think I should go. Bri, are you coming?" You look at her and smile encouragingly. She looks at Phil, who is obviously uncomfortable, but you don't feel sorry for him. It is your girlfriend, grow a pair and stand up to your uncle. "Yes," she decisively picks up her purse. "Bri," Phil mutters but he doesn't get up. Pillock!

You two step outside and then John's voice is behind. "Hey wait!" That's just great. Apparently hinting and getting a hint are not affiliated skills for him. You spin and give him a stare. Bri sees a cab, and you wave to her. She has a nice smile, when she doesn't care what she looks like. Habitual body monitoring, you brain supplies a term.

"What's that all about?" What? What wasn't clear in your getting up and leaving? "It's about you two being chauvinistic arses." He smirks disdainfully. "Well, common, let's not pretend she was not a bint." You just can't believe it!.. "You don't know her!" "I know the type." Arsehole, arrogant arsehole. "She is your nephew's girlfriend!" "This week, yes." Why are you even talking to him?

You turn away from him and look for a cab. "Listen, it was a bit out of line, but I'm sure she gets it all the time. Common, can we go back inside and finish the coffee?" Bloody hell, he is still trying! "Why do you bother? Following your judgemental logic, I'm probably a lesbian anyways, with the nose ring and the hair," you snap. "Not with the way you are looking at me."

You clench your teeth and fists, honestly surprised you still haven't punched him. "Why don't you go back to your macho of a nephew and leave me alone?" If he touches you, you will definitely kick him in the bollocks. You guess you are that angry because you liked him so much at the beginning. Let's be honest, you got a thing for dominating men.

His back disappears in the coffee shop, and you get in a cab. You are shaking and regret having that venti. When you get home, you realize you left the wallet in the coffee shop. Your neighbour pays for your trip back there, no luck, and back home. You fall in your bed. It is noon, but you just couldn't bother.

The phone rings in an hour and you recognize the voice immediately. "I have your wallet, do you want me to drop it off?" At least, not "when do you want me to drop it off"!.. You give the address of a sandwich shop in the next block. "I'll be in twenty." You borrow more money from the neighbour, and here you are, drinking your tea. He pushes the door with his broad shoulder, and hot damn!.. If you could be a guy for once and shag a body, no matter the brain, but alas, that usually doesn't work for you this way…

He places the wallet in front of you and asks, "Can I sit?" "No," he sits anyways. You regret not wearing your "no means no" tee, but then again he would stare at your tits. "I just want to apologize." "Apologize to Bri." "I already did, Phil called her." Hm, maybe not so spineless... "She dumped him anyways." He picks up a crisp off your plate, and shoves it into his mouth. He is crunching with gusto, and that neck… Shite!

"You apologised, I forgive you. You are a chauvinistic arse, but you know when to back off. Bye!" "Are we friends again?" "We never were friends." "We could be," he leans closer and smiles. "Are you always so direct?" "I'm never that direct, but something tells me honesty is the best policy with you. Probably the nose ring and the hair." He is laughing at you!.. Why are you still sitting in front of him?

Because you want to shag him. Plain and simple. Six ways to Sunday, until your voice is raspy from screaming. And you are certain he is so good!

You get up and pay for your tea. He is sitting and staring at you. "Are you clean?" He hikes up his brows. "What?" "Are you clean?" He smirks, "Just like that?" "Just like that. You did say honesty is the best policy with me. You want a shag, I'm inviting you over." He rises on his feet and you are not sure what is playing on his face. Randy, yes, angry, that too… But what else? Disappointment? Too easy? Someone likes the hunt.

"I'm clean," he submits, and you head to the exit. He silently follows you outside, and you are opening your front door. You are still getting the condoms, hopefully haven't expired. It's been awhile… You come in and flip the switch. His hands are suddenly on your waist and he pins you to the wall. His lips are greedy, and he smells of coffee and the crisp he stole. You scrape his neck with your nails and push your tongue into his mouth. He bends his knee, presses it up between your legs and lifts you off the floor. Then he gently but firmly takes your chin in a hot palm and turns your head to get to your throat. You push the cardigan off his shoulders and jerk the collar of the shirt.

Clothes are off in a few seconds, and you tumble into your bed. Your first climax comes quickly from his busy lips and fingers, then he flips you on your stomach, and you claw on the sheets. He is pounding into you, clutching your hip. Bruises, you prat!... His large palm grabs a handful of your longer hair on the top of your head, and you lift your arse, bending your back further. The next round he slips under you while you are kneeling on the bed, and you lower yourself on his mouth. A beard does add a lot!.. You come with a scream, and he carefully lies you down on the bed. After a few minutes, you scratch his chest with your nails, and he is ready again… God, it's like a jack-in-the-box, couple circular movements of your hand, and it springs to life! His hands are under your buttocks and he lifts your pelvis… Good thing you have no back problems… And for the final round, you straddle him and come twice more. Well I never…

You fall into the sheets and you are not sure you haven't lost consciousness there, for a second… Time to back up your words with your actions. You roll on your stomach and look at him. His eyes are closed. He really is a very handsome specimen… "Well, that was nice..." Your voice is as raspy as you wanted. "Kicking me out already?" He smirks and, damn it, don't swoon. The crow's feet, he is older than you thought, closer to fifty… Well, the stamina though… "I have some work to do." "What kind of work?" "No, we are not doing that," the fluffy black eyelashes fly up, "we shagged, it was brill, now back to our separate ways. You machoing around, me back to..." That's a very vague waving. Good, nothing to talk to him about. "What if I don't want to macho around anymore? Maybe I have seen the light?" He is plain mocking you. "Congratulation on your satori, now get out of my bed. And flat for that matter." He sits up in a fluid motion, and you jump away from him and on the floor. The shirt, the pants, the denim… He is not even trying to catch them. Here you go, a sock is hanging on his head, and he is laughing! An unbounded guffaw! "You didn't think I'll just leave like that?" That's exactly what you thought. "What do you expect, a cuppa?" "Can I?" "NO."

"Listen," you feel like a git, are you actually going to articulate it? "We had a one night stand..." "It's day time." Seriously? "We shagged, we are done, I don't even know your surname." "Thorington." Posh! What's wrong with you? "Whatever," oh stop making yourself comfortable. He bunches up your favourite pillow and snuggles into it. "Are you comfortable there? The floor is probably cold," that's plain purring, and yes it is, you twat. Get out of my bed! He pats the sheet near him. Is he bonkers? "Common, come back to bed. Tell me about the empowerment, male gaze, and Octavia Butler." You start boiling up but then pause. "What?" His eyes are laughing, and he looks delicious. Did he just say Octavia Butler?! Sod it all!


	15. Blind Date and Carnival

**A/N: Since I was preoccupied with other stories and my actual work (which I spend shamefully little time on:) I was thinking about the prompts I got from you over doing something really random like cleaning my stove. And somehow**** Just4Me****'s "blind date" and ****RedHairedJenna****'s "carnival" merged together into this silly story :) Since one was supposed to be fluff and another smut, there will be two parts, one for each. **

**A/N#2: I thought we need some sort of a light and happy modern fairy tale to cheer us all up. And unlike Thorin, John Thorington can be such a Prince Charming. Ha! Also, ****RagdollPrincess**** planted this idea of tied up Thorin(gton) in my head, so this happened :) Enjoy!**

**A/N#3: I used the caller identification system the way it works here. If your country has a different one, just go with it :)**

Over years you became very apt in ignoring Thea's escapades but this one seems to be beating all possible records of intrusiveness and craftiness. Oh, "intrusion", good word, you haven't used it for awhile. "Intrusion", "intrude"... "He intruded into her private space, his eyes dark and..." And what? What were his eyes like?

"Wren, are you even listening to me?" "Yes, yes, I am here." You are wiping your keyboard with a sanitizing wipe, phone pressed to your ear with your shoulder. "So are you up for it? The date?" "Thea, it's ridiculous, of course I am not up for a blind date with a spotty teenage son of a strange lady neither you or I know very well." "First of all he is forty and an architect. Second of all, Mrs. Thorington is anything but strange. She goes into the same spa as I do." Oh, pardon me! How could you doubt the Mirkwood Spa and Salon stamp of approval?

"Thea, it is a completely mad idea." "We discussed it with Beatrice and she said that you sound perfect for John." Oh, she is Beatrice now? "No one can sound perfect, Thea. People are not cereal brands that can be classified by the amount of fiber in them. It only happens in stupid cheap love novels." You should know, you produce five a year.

"Wren, I'm calling my favour now." "Thea, no!" "Wren, you owe me one. Big time. You left me in the same house as your mother for the whole Christmas weekend and you weren't there." It is true. Your mother is a monster. But that is not even the problem. Thea is technically your stepmother. And you were in uni together.

"Thea..." You are whining. "Now, Wren, I have chosen my sacrifice. I'm coming to your place tomorrow, I'm bringing you a dress and shoes, and then you are going to dinner with Mr. John Thorington Esquire." "I'm busy tomorrow." "Doing what? None of your dashing, smirky and well-endowed men are going to run away from you, and you know why, Wren?" "Because they are not real?" You accept your defeat. "Because they are not real, Wren. Now get your head out of your… laptop and get out into the world." That was what you were trying to avoid for the past seven years.

**XXX**

You are standing in front of the restaurant forty minutes too early. You were so nervous that you rushed out of your flat without checking the clock. You see a bar in the next block and go there. You don't drink but you can at least sit. Thea's shoes are killing you. How can shoes be too big and cut through your skin at the same time?

You climb on a tall bar stool and curse your height. Or lack of it. Your feet are dangling but at least there is some relief in your burning soles. "A coke, please." The bartender nods. The bar is rather packed, people chat and a very fit blonde near you in leaning into a bloke standing near her.

The cogs swirl in your head. "She leaned into him and he felt the intoxicating spicy fragrance of her perfume. She wrapped her delicate fingers around the stem of his wine glass, her red indecent lips…" The bartender places two drinks in front of you. The second is an appletini. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar." You lift your eyes and freeze.

You are going through two mental processes at the same time. One is a peculiar mixture awe and appreciation. That is the most attractive man you have ever seen in your life! The second is hasty cataloging of all details. You can write five books about the dark luscious hair, strong willful profile, sensual lips and virile broad body. Let us face it, you probably will.

He gets up and comes closer. "Did I guess the drink?" The voice is velvet, molasses and other cliches in an hypnotic panties-dropping cocktail. Unfortunately, you can't write the allure of it into a book. You have to leave it to your reader's imagination. Let them imagine themselves how it vibrates through your body and makes you wet and trembling. No, that's too much. Instantly attracted to its owner? Too straightforward. Willing and…?

You realize you are quiet, your eyes are probably glossy. You really need to stop taking notes. "I don't drink." You point at coke with your eyes. He looks and then his gorgeous face is adorned with the most adorable embarrassed expression you have ever seen.

"Shoot, and I thought I was clever," he chuckles, "I guess I'm out of practice. Haven't done it in years." And yet you still got it, mister. Although the reformed womanizer finally looking for the real thing is such an overused trope. Probably because it works on most. "Do you mind if I sit?"

You discreetly check the clock on the wall. You have twenty six minutes left. "Sure," you smile, "but I have to leave in twenty minutes. I have an appointment." Vague is good. He is just so… everything… that you want to keep him for at least twenty minutes. He looks at the clock too. "Well, then I have twenty minutes to talk you into giving me your phone number."

**XXX**

He succeeds in thirteen. He is smart, funny and so sexy that you feel the need to squeeze your knees. You hardly notice that you are following the usual steps you have described so many times in your books. Blush, nod, laugh at his witty jokes, let him move a bit closer, smile when he smiles, fiddle with your glass.

He is good. In those thirteen minutes he makes it obvious that it is not something he normally does, that he had a nasty breakup or some tragic story couple years ago, the idea is important, specifics are usually vague, and he just couldn't let you leave without convincing you to give him a chance.

That is exactly why you never go out. Men like you. Apparently the red hair somehow tells them that you are up for it. Which you haven't been for the last eight years. Not since you met Allan and especially not since you lost him. You would think it would be written all over your face but most men can't read.

You surprise yourself and take a napkin. You write your number on it. He takes it in his long, elegant fingers and lifts a smooth black brow. The gesture counterintuitively still makes you squirm on your chair. Banalities shouldn't work, but there you are, imagining wiping this smug expression off his face with a bruising kiss. Ouch, that is really not something a sane real life woman would enjoy. Dealing with a bloody lip later would probably kill any drive in anybody.

"Is it fake?" "No," you take a sip from your coke. "Because I'm going through all the usual moves here and keep thinking that you are definitely not that kind of girl. And that you probably internally dying of laughter at my lame attempts to charm you." His bright blue eyes are laughing.

You smile back. "To my own astonishment, it is real. Try it." He fishes his phone out of the jacket pocket and dials. Your mobile is chirping in your clutch. You pick it up and stare at the screen. "John Thorington." You lift your eyes at him.

His eyes are wide open and he is staring at his screen. "Wren Leary," he slowly reads and then the cerulean irises are flooded by the dilated pupils. Ouch, too anatomical. He looks at you and start laughing. "Do you always give your number to random tossers in a bar a few minutes before your date?" "Do you always chat up random birds in bars before your dates?"

You look at each other and start laughing. "You were supposed to be boring and bookish, and I only agreed since my mother blackmailed me," he lifts his hands defensively. "You weren't supposed to look like a modern version of Maureen O'Hara!" "So that is your excuse? You were not even going to get to know that boring and bookish spinster better? Maybe she had a wonderful personality!" "I was still going to the restaurant! It's not like I was going to stand you up."

You are sitting on the bar stool, caged between the counter and his heavy body. When did he get so close? Your eyes are at same level and you dive in, pressing your lips to his. And then for the first time in eight years your writer's mind stops working. You have no words for comparison, you have no smart phrases regarding the texture of his lips and what kind of fireworks explode in your brain. You feel, you move and you sigh into his mouth. He grabs you and pulls you closer. Some half alive thought stirs in your mind about him being skillful and creative but then it dies with a hiss.

After a few delicious minutes, finally some cliches wake up in your dazed brain, you let go of his collar and move back. He is blinking like an owl. Maybe it has really been a while for him. One can't fake this look. "Now we are definitely not going to a posh stuffy restaurant," he is shaking his head. "Oh?" "We are going to that American travelling funfair at the North of the city. A girl who kisses like that needs candy floss and a teddy bear won for her at a shooting booth." You look at his puzzled. "You are so much fun," he smiles and pulls you into another kiss. You are going to take it as a compliment.


	16. Blind Date and Carnival Go On

**A/N: First of all, I realized that recently, especially since I got sick and started procrastinating persistently, reading and reviewing my stories has become a pretty much full-time work for some of you. And I just want to say how GRATEFUL and ELATED I am from all your feedback! I love you all so much! (And no, I am not medicated, I'm generally so emotional towards my readers:)**

**A/N#2: Thank you for wishing me quick recovery. I'm almost fine already, so no more binge writing. I'm going back to my thesis tomorrow :(**

**A/N#3: Slightly unrelated point, some of you were talking about submissive Thorin in "Thorin's Word a Day" and I just thought I'll remind you about "The Hunt" (oh, my first ever written smut! Oh, the memories! I was so embarrassed and thought everybody on the plane could guess what I was doing:) It says there that Thorin knows that if he pulls on their usual (!) restraints hard enough, they will snap :) How do you think he knows about that? :)**

**A/N#4: And lastly (am I not a chatty one?:) this story is running away from me as USUAL! I know I promised smut but it's not quite what you expect, I think :) And I'm even scared to think about it, but a sequel consisting of smutty one-shots maybe? :) *blushes and hides under the quilt***

You drive you both to the funfair after changing into flats that you keep at the back of the car. If anything, this blind date is pleasurable experience just for that feeling when you take off these Spanish boots. Without the cursed heels you do not reach his shoulder. You try to ignore the iconic feeling of being delicate and fragile near him, but nothing helps.

You chat in the car, he is indeed an architect, you even know the research center on uni campus he designed. He has this low velvet voice that you always need to describe to explain why the heroine with a heaving chest is so affected by the hero's presence. Works in reality as well. Your car seems tiny and the spicy grassy cologne is driving you crazy.

This is the first man who has a corporeal body and manages to catch your attention in seven years. And the first man whom you kissed after your husband died. And the first you ever kissed the first day you knew him. To say nothing about doing it in the first half an hour after meeting him.

He indeed had a horrible divorce two and a half years ago, his wife having cheated on him with his partner in the firm. So he doesn't have either now. He laughs and says he likes to be a free range architect. You like his puns, and very very much like his hand stroking your fingers on the stick. He has very warm hands, and you are always cold.

Candy floss is indeed as good as you remember from childhood, and he actually wins you a plush toy in a shooting booth. It is a pink elephant and you can't stop laughing. He looks very smug until you tell him that you saw him greasing the palm of the carny. You sit in a ferris wheel carriage and somehow you very easily tell him about Allan. He nods and holds your hand, and then pulls you into him. For the first time you don't feel like a traitor getting so close to another man.

The knifethrower asks for a volunteer from the crowd and you giggle. You are pressed into John's side and then the blonde busty assistant come up to you two and shove the mike into John's face. "You, sir, would you like to impress your beautiful date with bravery and audacity?" You wince from the choice of words. Seriously, even you write better.

"Gladly, if you promise it will work on my date," he is laughing and you look at him in shock. "Are you mental?" You pull him down by his tie and are whispering hotly into his ear. "Can you imagine how unsanitary those blades are? What if he nicks you?" He is laughing more. "He promised that will impress my date, how can I say no?" He kisses your cheek and steps forward.

You clench your fists and chew your lips. The problem is not that you are worried about him. A bit, of course, but then again you are pretty sure they take this act around the world and know what they are doing. What worries you is the memories of how you were doing your research for _The Knife and the Heart_, your second most popular novel. How are your publishers even still in business with such taste?

It was two years into your widowhood and the first time you even remembered you have a body. Because all the Youtube videos and tutorial for impalement arts drove you into unexpected sexual frenzy. It was literally your porn. The artist on the screen takes out a blade, you unbutton your jeans, he moves his hand back before the throw, you take out a vibrator and so on, and so on.

You are grown-up woman and a mediocre writer, but even you know the sadomasochistic eroticism of the noble art of knife throwing and its place in classical literature. You also have a copy of _A Girl on the Bridge_. What you always considered slightly alarming in your kink is the fact that you are attracted to the human target, not the artist.

The assistant leads John to a wide board and two cuffs appear on the top of it. You breath in and bite your lip painfully. Your self control is slipping and you are shaking. The girl has to stand on a ladder to reach his lifted wrists and the shackles click. You are probably drawing blood from your tortured lip. You try to stop yourself from narrating in your head, but when have you ever managed it?

"She ran her hands over his spread body, his helplessness and immobility the best aphrodisiac for her. Her fingers lingered on the buckle of his trousers, and he exhaled loudly. "Do not speak," she murmured and he clenched his jaw. Her palm slid lower and cupped..."

You turn away from the act and close your eyes. You can do it, you can. You just have to breath through it and think about your mother. It can thwart any sort of excitement for you any day of the year. You slowly turn around and then the knife thrower in a ridiculous glittery costume steps out.

He takes out the first long blade and you look at John. He is smiling, completely relaxed and obviously enjoying himself. He doesn't seem like an adrenaline junkie to you. To think of it, since you met about four hours ago nothing seemed to really unsettle him. Maybe he is like that in general, nonchalant and cheerful. Meaning, the opposite of you. Well, the opposites attract.

With a swoosh the first blade flies, the crowd gasps and it drives into the board above John's right shoulder with a thump. Your inner walls clench, and you fist your hands. John gives out a chuckle. "How are you feeling, my man?" The knife thrower's mannerisms would be hilarious, weren't you so preoccupied with your increasingly stickier knickers. "Endlessly grateful that you are aiming above my waist." The crowd roars with laughter.

Your eyes fall below the said waist and then you push your face into the elephant. You hear the thump of the second knife and moan. You brace yourself for the next wave of text pouring into your feverish brain. "She lowered herself in front of him, holding his gaze and licked her lips. He groaned when her deft fingers unbuckled his belt and reached for the zipper. His raging erection was painful..." Thump! You jump up and practically bite into the plush toy.

You peek. There are two knives sticking above John's shoulders and one near his hip. Its companion follows on the other side. Thump! Oh... "If I were you, my friend, I would put your legs wider," the knife thrower pulls another blade out of his assistant's hand.

"Spread and open for her pleasure, he was breathing heavily, his wide masculine chest rising. She stepped back and pulled a narrow curved blade out of a scabbard on her thigh. With an experienced twirl of her slender wrist she sent the blade in the space between his inner thighs..." Thump! You yelp and bite into the poor dumbo.

The crowd is cheering and you dare to peek. The knife is three inches below John's… You give up and embrace it. You are thinking about his cock and there isn't much you can do about it. The assistant lets him out of the restraints and he bows to the clapping crowd. He is smiling and steps closer to you. "Have I impressed my date?" You jump at him and hang on him. He barks a laugh, picks you up under your bum and you hug his waist with your legs. The crowd roars in approval. You kiss him, and it is fervent and scorching, and all the other words you have ever used to describe it in your books. He moans into your mouth and you bite his bottom lip. "Take me home," you whisper into his ear and he nods.


	17. Lift

**For UKReader**

**A/N: I was really struggling with this one. Since I'm juggling so many stories at the same time, I just couldn't come up with anything original for "stuck in an elevator with claustrophobic Wren" prompt. I went through a huge amount of scenarios in my head and none would just do it for me. I gave up. And decided since I have nothing fresh and exiting to come up with, then I'll just make it silly and fluffy. Don't judge me *really feeling insecure here***

She is fit. The small body, petite and perky, slightly lacking in curves to your taste, but the long sensual neck, a slightly haughty set of her head, and of course the flaming locks compensate. Every morning you stare at the crown of copper locks, sometimes in braids, sometimes in a complicated ponytail, very rarely running down her shoulders in soft waves. The shoulders and the collarbones cause most thrill in you. You have a fetish and you are fine with it. Her shoulders are exquisite. Slender, flexible, and all her posture is a promise.

Last thing you need is actually to talk to her. Because then your creepy voyeurism will definitely lose its charm. You are certain once she opens her mouth, the spell will be broken. After all she does work in a fashion magazine. And no, you didn't stalk her, the folder in her hands every morning clearly states _Dale Confidential_ and you've seen the glossy colourful covers at the tills in grocery shops. There is always a photoshopped female celebrity on the cover and article titles like "26 new ways to seduce your boss". You really want to ask why anyone would listen to new promising solutions to the problem if the previously offered advice clearly didn't work and how many women are there who are in dire need to seduce their boss anyways?

Today she is wearing one of those narrow skirts that hug her glorious tiny bum and go below her knee, frilly semitransparent blouse with merry polkadots and her hair is in a complicated do, with a braid going around her head. She rushes into the lift in her usual hasty steps, heels clanking, sweet fresh perfume fills your nose, and she is immediately absorbed in something on her mobile.

You are sipping your coffee. You have twenty five floors to enjoy the view of the lines of her elegant neck and the tiny curls that escaped the braids, coiling at the hairline at the back of her head. Most people leave at the sixteenth, and you know that the last guy will rush out at the eighteenth. And then for six floors it's just you and her.

You pass the nineteenth floor, when the lift jolts and stops. That is the second time this week. Last time it happened when people were actually leaving their work. They were livid. They had to spend an hour in it, until the service people finally managed to get it going again. You reach for the phone on the wall and dial. "Yeah, hi, I'm in the lift in the E wing of the building, and I think we are stuck." You are listening to apologetic mumbling of the reception desk, and meanwhile you realize that the girl is not moving. You hum in agreement, and after receiving a promise that they will solve the issue ASAP you hang up.

"Miss?" She is still, only the delicate shoulders are rising a bit. You look at her face. She is very pale, and her eyes are closed. She is taking small spasmodic breaths and the knuckles on her tiny hands are white. She is clutching her folder and the mobile. "Miss, are you alright?"

"No," she breathes out and you realizes she is trying to take deeper breaths. "Are you claustrophobic?" Damn, is asking a claustrophobic person if they are indeed terrified of being stranded in closed space, such as the lift you are currently in, going to trigger even more anxiety for them? You put your coffee cup in the corner on the floor.

She nods and presses her belongings tighter to her chest. She is biting on her bottom lip. Her translucent, usually radiant skin has a greenish tint. Right, what are you supposed to do to manage a panic attack? Breath deeper and try to get distracted.

"Miss, what is your name?" "Wren," she gulps, "Wren Leary." "I'm John Thorington. Nice to meet you." You move a bit closer. Will standing near her make her more uncomfortable? She probably needs as much space as possible. "So, Wren, you just take deep breaths and we can just have a friendly chat. They will start the lift pretty soon." She is shaking her head.

"You don't want to chat?" More furious shaking. "You don't want to breath? I agree with you, it is quite boring." Two giant hazel eyes fly open, and she looks at you confused. So she does hear some things. "Where do you work, Wren?" The wide open eyes scan your face. They are colour of the single malt Glenfiddich, the lashes are thick and long, meticulous black liner on the upper lid. You should know, you photograph eye make up twice a month. This is called V-shaped eyeliner style. Because she is so much shorter, she looks exceptionally doe-eyed at the moment, staring at you from down there.

"You know exactly where I work. We have ridden this lift every morning for the past seven months," her tone is unexpectedly grouchy. "And you tend to stare a lot, so you probably know more about me that I do myself." Ouch. That was direct. "Can't help it, doll, you are an eyecandy!"

She inhales and her eyes flash. "Listen up, you perv," she takes a step ahead and points a tiny finger at your face, blush returning to her cheeks, "if you even think of pulling anything off..."

You smile and then plainly chuckle. "Feeling better?" She freezes and realizes then she moved and even spoke. "I apologize for staring though," you lift your hands in mock surrender. "I am a photographer in _Erebor Incorporated_ on the twenty seventh, can't help it."

She steps back and shifts her weight between her feet. "Thank you," she suddenly smiles, and it is a magnificent smile. Open, sincere, making her look so much more… Just more. She peers around, and you see her tense again. "So Wren, what do you do in _Dale Confidential_?" "I write sex advice column." Wow, that was... wow. Really?

"Really?" She looks at you again, peevish expression back on her face. "Which part surprises you, that I do it or that I openly confess it?" "Neither, I have no judgment regarding it. Never read it. Just didn't think that this is what you do." "What did you think I do then?" To be honest, you didn't really care.

"An editor?" She lifts a brow and gives you a skeptical look. "Now you are just trying to weasel your way out of an uncomfortable conversation. I bet you didn't even think about it. You probably just appreciated the bum, or the breasts, or the curve of the shoulder. While others just ogle, you the artistic type tend to dissect and appreciate the parts." Yikes.

She looks better. The cheeks are gaining their colour back. At the expense of your dignity, but you guess it's alright. "I suppose you should know male preferences better than anybody." "My job is not about male preferences, it is about making intimacy more pleasurable for a woman. Be it with a man, with a woman or with a dildon." You don't even want to know.

"What is a dildon?" You try not to smile but the corners of your lips twitch. She puffs the air out. "Listen, John, I appreciate you trying to distract me but I'm not going to have a sex talk with you right now." She closes her eyes again and takes long conscientious breaths. "We can talk about something else. Puppies? Lollies? The new nuclear policy of Turkmenistan?"

She opens her eyes again. "Turkmenistan doesn't have nuclear weapons." Her tone is strict and didactic. She looks additionally hot, with the whole librarian slash teacher sternness around her. You chuckle. "I have no idea really, just sounded impressive." Suddenly her face is mischievous. "I have no idea either," she snickers, "You are just too easy, honestly." What?

The lift jolts again and she squeals. A second ago she was taking a piss out of you, and now she is pressed into you, surprisingly strong little hands grabbing your sweater. The folder and the mobile flop on the floor. You circle her with your arms and press her into yourself. She is shaking, and her eyes seem twice as big as a second ago.

Everything is quiet for a few seconds, and she slowly exhales. You feel her heart beating frantically, there is basically no space between your bodies. "Can I please stay here for a second?" Her voice is very high. "Sure thing." She wraps her arms around your middle and presses her face into your sternum. She is regulating her breath, you think you might have to as well.

She seems to be mumbling. "Sorry?" "Nothing, just trying to distract myself." "Mother Goose rhymes reciting?" She chuckles. It's shaky but it is definitely a chuckle. "Song lyrics." "Oh, what band?" Please, don't say Justin Bieber. "The Stones." What?

She presses her cheek into you harder. "There's a little yellow pill. She goes running for the shelter of her mother's little helper. And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day..." Her plump sexy lips covered with bright deep pink lipstick are moving, and you think you are in love.

She chuckles again. "Somehow imagining Mick makes me calmer." "Goodness, can't think how that actually works." She giggles. "Well, men think about footie to be distracted." Naughty, naughty girl!

She is not clinging desperately to you anymore but doesn't seem to move away either. "Tell me about your work, John." "I am a photographer for ads agency, what's there to tell? Lots of half naked women on bikes, and cars, recently a lot of coffee cups too." She hums. "What is wrong with people these days, what happened to a good old cuppa?" She nuzzles you. Bugger, that's distracting. "It'll pass, I'm sure," she sounds pensive, "Some day good old cuppa will be in fashion again. Especially after that Jag commercial."

"Are you a fan, Miss Leary?" "Of Jags?" The mischievous tone tells you she knows exactly what you are asking about. "Obviously. Why would you be a fan of the git in a checked suit?" "I am the fan of the said git. He is hot as hell and talented to no end. Do you think I'm interested in a supercharged 3.0 liter V-6 with 380 horsepower and 339 foot pound of torque?"

You push her away and look into her eyes. They are laughing. "I think I'm in love with you." She smirks. "Well, that's unfortunate. Because I find you endlessly repulsive." She grabs a handful of your sweater and pulls you down and towards her. Her lipstick tastes like black cherries. Neither of you notices that the lift starts moving.


	18. Dream

**A/N: Just a thought that wouldn't leave me alone after ****Just4Me****'s comment for a chapter on "Thorin's Word A Day" #25: "****I'm glad that was just a dream, and not some hideous alternate reality where they never really met". I realized the beginning of the story might read like that only when I was correcting typos in it, and I'm glad that you caught on that. So, here is a story!**

You wake up with a jerk, your heart is beating painfully in your throat, you are taking huge gulps of air. You press your hand to your forehead and reach for the other side of the bed to touch the warm shoulder of your husband. "Thorin…" Your hand hits an empty pillow, and then it all comes back to you.

There can not be anyone in your bed. You are not married, and most of all there cannot be a sleeping Dwarf in your bed. Because Dwarves do not exist. You look at the annoying green digits on your radio. 3:15. You fall back into your pillows and groan.

You pull at your hair. What kind of a convoluted absurd dream was that? All those little tangible details, he was pressing you into his body, his mouth on the pulse on your neck, black thick beard tickling your skin, you were sitting on his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck. A heavy velvet dress on you, a dark blue attire on him, the children playing on the floor, the youngest in his older brother's arms, all of it so real...

You have had these dreams since you remember yourself. It seems with years they have been intensifying and in the past ten months, since you started working on that medieval exposition, they have been driving you mad.

More and more details add to your delusion. The way his hair falls and curtains you from the world when he presses your body into the sheets, the way it feels when his son stirs under your heart for the first time, the weight of his newborn babe in your hands, the feeling of power and pride you will feel when the heavy iron crown lies on your head, the smiles, the tears, the kisses, Thror, Unna, Dain and Othin...

You grab a pillow and smack it into your face. No more Northern mythology before bedtime. You nuzzle the pillow and will sleep to come. You have an important day tomorrow, there are flyers to order, a banquet hall to book, laundry to pick up…

You are late, and you tumble down the stairs only to see the bus leaving the bus stop. You curse under your breath and rush around the corner. You can still catch the other one, and with a lucky transfer you can still make it. You slip on the ice, and your handbag falls on the ground. You curse again and start picking up scattered items, thankful that at least there were not tampons in it.

You feel the presence of another person near by and lift your eyes. The gentlemen is probably around seventy, elegant silver grey hair, mischievous blue eyes. He is smiling to you, scooting and picking up your pens and tubes of lipstick. You gratefully accept them and then see the other bus going by. You definitely have had better days.

"It will get better," he has a low melodic voice, and you remember that he is still there. "Oh, sorry, I haven't thanked you." "It's quite alright, my dear, I only did what any self-respecting gentleman would do." You both get up, and you realize that he is very tall. An elegant grey suit, a grey coat and a silver scarf. Although slightly too monochrome for your taste, you have to admit he is quite dashing.

You sigh. "It's just that I'm now definitely late for my work..." "Believe an old man, my dear, the destiny is never late, nor is it early, it arrives precisely when it means to". You smile to him again and shove the last items in your handbag.

"Well, I really should be going... Have a nice day!" You turn around to leave, and then you hear his chocolate voice behind you, "And a very good day to you, lady Wren." You think that you must be hearing things, you shrug and take your first step towards the next bus stop.

You feel a gentle push at your back, and you have a moment to get appalled. Did this nice old gentlemen just pushed you from the curb, onto the road, into a giant puddle, dirty cold water mixed with ice? And then a large black car turns from around a corner, and you realize that the disgusting icy goo seeping into your ankle boot is the least of your problems at the moment.

You close your eyes and hear the brakes screeching. You brace yourself for an impact, but it never comes. You peek. The bumper is literally one inch away from your heaving chest, and you gulp.

The door flies open, and two large palms grab your shoulders. "Are you alright?! Miss, are you alright?!" You lift your eyes, and there he is. The endlessly familiar blue eyes, thick black lashes, the beard is here too, the hair is shorter, but still the same luscious dark waves with strands of argent, pulled into a ponytail, the curved sexy lips, and you feel nauseated. You always feel like vomiting when you are emotional.

He lets you go and steps back. "It's you..." You both say it at the same time and stare at each other. He shakes his head, and the gesture is familiar too. "Wren..." "Thorin..." "It's John actually," his voice is raspy, "Thorington." You emit a ridiculous giggle. He smiles widely. "Wren..." His velvet voice caresses your name, and you swoon.

The kiss is familiar too and the frigid water slushing in your boot is just another in a series of the disgusting substances somehow involved in a passionate moment between the two of you that you had to endure over years. There was swamp water, warg blood, Orc blood, Great Spider's web… You push your hands into his hair and get on your tiptoes. A delicious, so endlessly familiar chuckle rumbles in his chest. "What?" "You are so much shorter this time." "Oh you barmy muppet," your voice is warm and teasing, "it's you who is taller this time!"


	19. Woman

**A/N: I decided to try a song-based fic. Never done it before. Seems like real fun, when others do it :D**

"**I'm A Woman" by Koko Taylor **

The curtain opens, and in the cone of light you see the sexiest little thing. Small perky body in a shimmering blue dress. Cut up to the middle of her thigh, shaped leg, lacy top of a stalking. The 30's look somehow becomes her, though it shouldn't. She has a weird elvish face, with the orange curls she looks almost like a fairy from those books your nieces read. The pianist strikes the keys, and the hip moves in the rhythm.

The voice is surprisingly low, raspy, and you momentarily think that this one is a screamer. The choice of the song does not disappoint.

_When I was a little girl, only twelve years old,_

_I couldn't do nothing to save my dog gone soul._

_My mama told me the day I was grown,_

_She says, "Sing the blues child, sing it from now on..."_

She drops her head back, and the long neck is elegant, tendons tense, throat's movements mesmerizing.

_I'm a woman, oh, yeah,_

_I'm a woman, I'm a ball of fire._

Oh yes, she is. The slanted, almost Asian looking eyes burn, and the small hand lies on the hip.

_I'm a woman, I can make love to a crocodile._

_I'm a woman, I can sing the blues._

_I'm a woman, I can change old to new._

Your mate is late, he squeezes between the chairs and flops on the chair near you. You see his eyes fall on the stage, and he gapes. She notices him too, and the nostrils flare. She is obviously mad he was interrupting. The next line is almost a growl.

_I'm a woman, I'm a rushing wind._

_I'm a woman, I can cut stone with a pin._

He swears under his breath and squirms on his chair. She narrows her eyes. He leans to you. "We need to leave." "Why?" No force will drag you out of this club. You are nailing this bird tonight. "That's my ex wife." You stare in him in shock.

_I'm a woman, I'm a love maker._

_I'm a woman, you know I'm an earth shaker!_

She adds more swing into her hip, and you just can't believe it. John is a bit of an unassuming bloke, you work together but you don't know much about him. He is quiet, rarely goes out with you, a generally pleasant type. Good designer, not much more to say. That is not how you imagined his ex wife to look!

_I'm goin' down yonder, behind the sun_

_Gonna do some for you, ain't never been done._

She closes her eyes and licks the lips covered in red lipstick. The bottom one is plump and pouty, the upper one curved and arrogant. "How did you get a wife like that?" "She picked me up in a club." He grabs your drink and drink your double Scotch in one gulp. You don't blame him. "Didn't know she is back in town."

_I'ma hold back the lightning, with the palm of my hand._

_Shake hands with the devil, make him crawl in the sand._

"What happened?" "Turned out she can't have kids. She dumped me, said I needed someone better."

_I'm a woman, oh, yeah._

_I'm a woman, I'm a ball of fire._

The red lips move, and the skin on the slender shoulders is radiant. Her eyes fall on him, and voice goes lower.

_I'm a woman, _

_I can make love to a crocodile._

He can't take his eyes off her, furious red spots on his cheekbones. "Send me divorce papers by mail." "When was it?" "Two years ago. Ran into her last January, said she was finally over me."

_I'm a woman, I'm a love maker._

_I'm a woman, you know I'm an earth shaker._

_Oh, oh, oh, oh, I'm a woman..._

She arches her back and long black lashes flutter. The green eyes are burning. She is so not over him.

You throw cash on the table. You have nothing to do here anymore. "Are you staying, John?" He doesn't answer. The music stops, the club explodes with applause, and she smiles. The smile is only for him, and you think that at their second wedding you are so nailing the maid of honour.


	20. Apartment or Flat

**A/N: For ****Neewa****! Thank you for the song prompt **_**"Bad Girls" by Donna Summer**_** and the idea with the apartments! Hope everybody likes it!**

OK, London officially sucks. It is dirty, noisy, people are rude, and it is freakishly expensive! Should you say _bloody _expensive? The apartment, _flat, _that you finally found is driving you crazy. The problem is that you are a night nurse, meaning you need to sleep during the day. And it is noisy. You toss and turn, and yet you can still hear the transport in the street and the voices of people outside. It turns out that a _chippy shop _produces a lot of noise. How is deep fried fish and French fries, and yes, that is exactly what they are, a reason for stepping on the pavement and yelling, "Oy, mate, that is barmy! Such a grub!"

You hide your head under the pillow and then hear a loud bang into your door. No way! Now what? You groan, and hear Thea stomping to the door. Have you forgotten to mention that you have a roommate? Yes, the glorious Thea Martin, your best friend and your nemesis. That was her idea to move to London. And you are such a wuss and were so heartbroken over Allan that you dragged your sorry ass across the ocean with her. Although her plan was well thought through, you two settled in rather smoothly, you still suspect that Benedict and Thomas William were her main reasons for moving. Neither of the two hotties does it for you, but you cannot deny the charm of the accent. The only thing is that most men you see everyday sound horrible. Apparently it's called East London accent. Meaning they are British equivalent of rednecks.

Thea is talking to someone, and the second voice is definitely male. Low and sexy. You momentarily question your sanity. You can hardly hear it, why did you assume it is sexy? You so need to get laid…

You give up and come out to the tiny kitchen. Thea is making her usual toast and scrambled eggs. "What was it?" She turns around and looks at you with pity. No wonder, you look like shit. That is the fifth night, well, technically day, that you are not getting enough sleep. "God, Wrennie, have some food at least." You flop on a chair. Thea is buttering you toast, and her face is dreamy. Oh-oh, not good. "That was our new neighbour, Wrennie. And I'll tell you I am finally starting to appreciate our building." You drop your head on your arms on the table. "Oh no, Thea… Do not sleep with our new neighbour, please..." You are moaning. "Last time you slept with apartment 56 and then apartment 59, and that was the same floor, and it got so awkward that we had to move."

"First of all, _flat _56 and _flat _59, and secondly, I _shagged _them, Wrennie, and finally, not my fault they do not understand one time thing concept." Chippy shop or not, at least the rent is not horrendous here. "Please, Thea..." "But Wrennie, you should have seen him! Tall, dark, handsome, large hands and feet, and the lips!" She is purring, and you tragically chew your toast. And the water was even hot here sometimes in the mornings... You will miss the building.

"And he is a musician, Wrennie! That bang, that was him accidentally bumping his cello into our door. He knocked to apologise! So polite!" Oh, no! "Cello?! Fuck, Thea, is he going to practise it here?!" Goodbye, the pathetic left-overs of sleep! "OK, Thea, I changed my mind, shag your dark, tall and handsome. And then we can swiftly move out. Or maybe he will move out." She laughs salaciously, and you groan.

The next day you come back home, take a shower and climb under the blanket. You closed all windows, but the street noises still seep in. Damn it! A floor above you, someone is stomping, and you bite into the pillow. By now you have tried everything: earplugs, earphones, earmuffs, nothing works. Since they changed your shifts and you started coming home at 8 instead of 5, you can't sleep.

That is when cello starts. At first you think it is a hallucination in your feverish brain, it is low and soft, and you realize it is Bach. You are no expert, but you saw _August Rush. _You had a thing for John Rhys Meyers for a bit there, but it passed. Not tall enough.

The music is amazing, it sort of crawls up on you, seemingly vibrates through the walls, gentle and erotic. What, erotic? You roll on your back and stare at the ceiling. You are not much for music, to be honest, dancing yes, music nah. Especially classics, but this is pure orgasm. There are forceful low dives, and then it flies up, and drops down again. Maybe it is because it is live, just behind the wall, maybe you are that sleep deprived, maybe it's Thea's "tall, dark and handsome". You close your eyes, and imagine long sensual fingers, deft and calloused. You really don't know, do they get calluses from those strings? Oh wait, they also have a bow…

You wake up from your alarm. You cannot believe it! You fell asleep! And you slept all your well-deserved nine hours! And all thanks to the cello! You are full of energy and very perky. You saunter into the kitchen and find Thea finishing her dinner. "I changed my mind again. If you as much as lay your finger on Tall, Dark and Cello Playing, I will murder your favourite striped top in a laundromat!" "It's called _launderette_, Wrennie, and why? Do you want him for yourself?" "I spent the whole day in bed, Thea!" "With him? So quickly?" "Don't be daft, I slept! His celloing made me sleep! It's like the world's best sleeping aid. Do not touch him! For once, keep your hands to yourself." Thea swears on her favourite black pumps, and you cheerfully skip to work.

The story repeats for the next ten days, and you are in Heaven. You are well-rested, highly functional and as cheerful as a lark. And then the music stops. For the whole day it is gone, and you are dying in your bed. You pray to all deities you can think of, but sleep doesn't come. The next night you are dozing on your station, and after your shift you go to a music store. You buy discs and try playing them. It doesn't work. The second day goes without his playing, and you are in agony. Weirdest theories float in your brain. Is it the vibrations through the wall that worked? You are staring at a picture of some fancy cello player on the disc case. The cello is between his legs, and there is this spike at the bottom that is jammed into the floor. Maybe the movement of the bow are transferred through it into the floor and into your walls… You groan and press a pillow to your face.

After the third no luck in the sleeping area day, you are desperate enough to buy a cello yourself and make Thea play it. How much is this thing anyways? You decide to give it the last chance, and then he is back! The warm, soft, orgasmic waves of Bach's Suite No. 1 pour into your ears. Yes, you now know what that is. The pile of useless discs got you educated.

You sleep like a baby. And for the next six days after that. And then he is gone again. You endure it like a trooper. Meaning you rage and kick furniture. And then you think that maybe it's not the vibrations, maybe it's something in how he is playing. You need to record him, and then you will be fine! It sounds crazy, but you are that desperate.

You have an old boombox, and one morning instead of going to bed you dress up and head to _flat _number 9. You put on a sexy top and jeans, a bit of mascara, and make a perky ponytail. Pretty much you are as dolled up as you can. You are not very good at that. You are passing Thea in the kitchen, and her eyebrows hike up. You make an innocent face and pretend nothing extraordinary is happening.

You exhale and knock at the door. The lock clicks, and you are hit by a full scale panic. What a fuck are you doing, Wren? The door opens, and he is in front of you. Mother of God! The eyes are blue, the shoulders and chest wide, a thick black beard and a ponytail! Tall, dark and handsome? That is a fucking understatement of the year! More like delectably large, orgasmically gifted with a luscious mane and fucking gorgeous! _Bloody sod_, he is fit! As it British meaning of this word, as in sexy as hell.

He lifts a brow. Right, you have been staring at him for the last few seconds. "Hi!" You stretch your hand. "I'm Wren, I live in 6." "Hi, Wren, I am John," you were right, the voice is sexy. He smiles, still holding your hand in his. It feels like you are being constantly slightly electrocuted. You so want to jump his bones. What in the name of Rassilon was that?

"Can I come in?" He lets you pass inside. You got so sidetracked by his sexiness that you forgot the point of your visit. Also, now you feel even more crazy to ask to record his practise. What kind of stalking behaviour would that be?

"So, John, I heard your playing..." You lick your lips. You had a nice speech prepared but your head is suddenly completely empty. He is barefoot, in a dark tee, and old denim. There is no belt, and the pants sit very low. _Trousers, _Wren. Although you can see the what is locally called _pants _as well. The waist is peeking. Fuck, you haven't had sex in thirteen months and a week. Not that you are counting.

He rubs the back of his neck with his large palm. "I am sorry, was it too loud? I specifically mentioned it to the landlord, and he said it is alright as long as it is during daytime." And here is the example of good British accent, ladies and gentlemen. Well articulated, all necessary sounds there. Although you are no expert, you can hear some sort of strange irregularity in it as well. You are just starting to figure the local accents out, but he sounds a bit like Doctor Number Nine. Would that be Northern accent then?

"No, no, you were not at all loud. Actually it is lovely! I really liked it!" The brows twitch. You decide to tear the bandaid off in one move. "You see, John, I work in a hospital, I am a night nurse, so when you start practising that is exactly the time when I'm going to sleep..."

"Oh..." His curved lips form this wonderful "o", and you gulp. "I am so sorry…" He sounds sincerely upset. "Oh no! That's not what I meant. Actually since you moved in, I finally started sleeping properly. When you were gone for a few days, I couldn't fall asleep at all. Where were you by the way?" You realize you sound like a jealous girlfriend and feel the blush. It is also known as "Wren's Bane", it's furious, uncontrollable and very, very noticeable. You are so pale in general that it is like watercolours on your cheeks.

He smirks. God, you are hardly controlling yourself! "I had a gig in Manchester." "And I couldn't sleep. Don't do it again!" He is staring at you in disbelief. You emit a pathetic laugh. "Kidding." He is scrutinizing your face. "So, John, to the point of my visit. I bought some discs but they don't work. That weird guy in the store sold me them, and he said they were the best. But I still don't sleep." "Are you American?" His voice has to be declared illegal. "Canadian. Calgary, Alberta." He hikes up his brows again. "It's a city. Calgary, in the province Alberta. A lot of oil, cowboy hats and beef." "Oh..." Again with the "o". You might get an "o" just from seeing his lips move. "So I was wondering if you have some recordings of your playing and if I can purchase them?" OK, in for an inch, as they say. "And if not, then maybe I can record your playing? I am hoping it'll work. When you are not here to put me to sleep I mean." You look at him from under your lashes. He tilts his head and is pondering your question.

Or possibly staring at your mouth. You lick your lips, and he exhales. So, the latter then. Oh fuck it all. And then you do something you never do. At all. Ever. You do not even know if people do it anywhere but in stupid romcoms. You leap at him and grab the handfuls of his tee on his chest. And then you pull him down. Damn, he is so tall. Considering that his lips land on yours he is more than willing. No way this feat is achievable anywhere but in movies if the other person doesn't meet you half way.

And he does. His hands are splayed on your back, and you moan into his mouth. So good, so fucking good! He picks you up under your buttocks, and you hang on him. He is delicious, he tastes of mint and tea, and your grab handfuls of his hair. "O" indeed! The smooth silkiness of his strands has to be illegal for sure!

You two topple into his bed, and you find out that yes, the fingers are calloused. And very, very talented. You come with a scream. And then again. And only then you can finally pull off those jeans from his hips. He is purring and rumbling, and all together he is wonderful. Your brain is off, and you do not care.

After round three and then four you two are spread on his bed. He is breathing heavily, and you are laughing. "I just wanted to record you play." He is staring at the ceiling. "Why don't you just stay and I will practice in the living room?" You screw your eyes at him, and he turns his head. He is smiling.

"That is very generous of you, John. But what am I going to do tomorrow? Seriously, I have this lovely old boombox, it might work…" "You can stay tomorrow as well." Is he serious? He rolls on his side and props his head on his hand. "Why? Is that such a mental idea? Thus, we both get what we want. You get to sleep, I get to see you in my bed. Sounds like a great plan to me." He is as they say here _mental_. You laugh in disbelief. "I hardly know you. I mean this was great, and we can discuss where we go from here. I mean, no pressure… But…" "But you are not moving in with me." His eyes are laughing, and you think he is obviously nuts.

You move in three days later, after three torturous sleepless days and a bouquet of daffodils left under your door. He is obviously twisting your arm into doing it, but the gesture is weirdly romantic. He does need to practice, and he is sacrificing it for you. As they say here, _tosser_. You sleep like a baby in his bed.

When he leaves for his next gig for three days, a disc of his playing recorded for you, you do not even need it. The smell of his skin on the sheets does the trick. He comes back, drops the suitcase on the floor and pulls you into him. He looks like shit. There are purple shadows under his eyes, he looks exhausted. "I could not sleep without you." You curl up into each other, and he nuzzles your neck. "Good day." "Good day, sleep tight." It doesn't rhyme, but you two think it's cute and romantic. And yes, you are that nauseatingly happy together!


	21. Pickup Truck

**A/N: For ****RagdollPrincess****! Thank you for the song prompt and the phrase to work around :) Especially thank you for reminding me of the fact that I am indeed bilingual :)**

"**Truck Got Stuck" by Corb Lund Band**

The lilting voice of the yoga lady is floating above our heads, and I'm thinking there are about seven minutes before all the hell breaks loose. My wife is biting on her bright red lower lip. In the past seven months I have learnt that when the green eyes are narrowed like that, it is when everyone should hide under tables and pray for their lives.

"And then you need to embrace your inner mother…" My other half snorts, and I think I hear her mumbling under her nose. I can distinguish a couple of words. One is _фигня_, which is "poppycock" in her mother tongue, and then there is _сдохнуть_, which is an equivalent of "kick the bucket". I know that one well enough. It's never a good sign.

Her mom, who is the best mother-in-law a bloke can hope for, has moved here in the seventies but she is still struggling with the language. My wife's English sounds surprisingly posh, after a few years of internship in Leeds, which is especially stunning considering the words that sometimes come out of this glorious mouth. As a professor of comparative linguistics I have to say that her aspiration of the first consonant in _cunt_ is alarmingly sexy.

My interest in Russian and the other Slavic languages is what got me in this aggro in the first place. I needed someone to read me the texts, she needed a ride home. The first time we shagged was in the back of my car, at the parking lot of my apartment building. We just couldn't wait another three minutes to get up the stairs.

My wife is a surgeon, which means she is a tough cookie and as ruthless as a Mongolian nomad. Apparently it is from them invading Russia in the 13th century where my wife and many other Russians got slanted eyes. Apparently the temper is from her BC Dad, but no way in hell a Canadian can be such a wild beast. Having grown up in Manchester, I have to say Canadians I've met are as fluffy as lab pups. All except for my fierce wife. And at the moment she looks increasingly irritated.

"Imagine you are a fish bowl, and your babe is swimming in the warm embrace of your love..." Wren is rolling up her eyes and then gives you a pointed look. "Давай пойдем, а? Это же явная чушь," she speaks in a low voice. She wants to leave, and I shake my head. She keeps on skipping these classes, and today I went with her to make sure she sits through at least one of them. She claims they are "бред" and then happily saunters to a nearest Tim's.

Even if the lady does sound like she is raving under a very high fever, there still might be something useful in her blabbering. Yes, none of us expected this New Age gibberish in a prenatal class in the best hospital in the city, but it is still worth looking into.

"When you push that beautiful baby out of your body, you will enter the most wonderful phase of your life..." Wren leans into me and whispers into my ears, "Когда я вытолкну этого огромного ребенка из моей вагины, в нашей жизни не наступит чудесный период. В ней настанет время, когда у меня на футболке все время будут пятна от молока, а ты забудешь, что такое сон." _When I push this giant baby out of my vagina, there will be no wonderful phase in our life. I'll have milk stains on my tee on my boobs, and you will forget what sleep is._

And they say Russians are optimists. And then she strokes my thigh, "О, и не забудь про разрывы и трещины, ребенок у тебя будет, конечно, размером с пискап, так что никаких попрыгушек месяца три." _And don't forget about tears and cracks, your kid will be the size of a pickup truck, so no sex for at least three months._

She calls sex _попрыгушки_, which literally means "hopping" or "bobbing", and you find it adorable. A woman who can pour a bucket of the dirties swearings there exist in English language, can't say "intercourse" in her mothertongue. I pat her knee.

And then they start passing some books. I groan internally. She can tolerate, though with difficulty, the droning at the background, she probably blocks it out and is thinking of an apple fritter, but once the rambling about fishbowls and meditative music during delivery gains a corporeal form of an actual book, there will be nothing that could mollify the fire tornado that is my dearest spouse.

She picks up a copy and wrinkles her nose. And then she shows me the cover: _You, Nature, and Delivery_. There is a picture of a happy looking lady is a lotus pose with a tiny baby drawn on her round stomach. The baby is a size of an apple. Wren lifts a brow, "Пикап, Джон, огромный грузовик. Полный привод." _Pick-up, John, a huge truck. Four wheel drive._

Women and their exaggeratedly attentive husbands are studying their copies of the book. "Dodge Dakota, Ford Supercrew, GMC Sierra, Chevrolet Colorado..." She is murmuring into my ear almost erotically. Have I mentioned that my wife who looks like an Old English fay, speaks like the Duchess of York, swears like a sailor and cooks like the best of Russian wives, is also a pick-up crazy daughter of prairies?

"Let us talk about the incense that you want to accompany you into the magical words of delivering your child in our beautiful world..." That is the limit of Wren's patience. She slams the book into the carpet everyone is sitting on, in "a circle of acceptance and understanding", and jumps on her feet. She told me that everyone in the group hates her because she can still do it in her seven months. If others in the room knew the flexibility she retained in her small body and repeatedly showed in bed this morning, they would probably throw rotten vegetables at her and pull her copper hair out. Apparently, they were not very kind to her during the first class, suggesting she should come back in three months, or when she is actually pregnant. And then they hissed at her when she couldn't come up with a weird craving she had. She actually sniffed when telling this story, which had never happened before, crying is for wusses, and that's when I suggested to go with her.

"Alrighty, you can go on with this rubbish," she beckons me with a snooty waving of her delicate fingers, and I get up with a sigh. And then she looks around the room, into the eyes of other pregnant women and their probably hungry husbands, "And I am going to indulge in a maple glazed doughnut and some Timbits right now. Try getting this thought out of your heads."

She picks up her handbag from the floor and marches to the doors. All I can do is plod after her. Who needs the classes anyways, she is a M.D. and her Russian stubbornness will help her endure through pretty much anything. I catch up with her and see that the frown is already gone. She is smiling blissfully, no doubt daydreaming of Timbits. I swirl her around and catch her mouth. She hums and wraps her arms around my neck. "Люблю тебя." "I love you too, sweet. Let's get you your sugar fix." We hold hands and head out.


	22. Cool Frog

**A/N: This one will be different, my lovelies! It is co-written with RagdollPrincess. Initially based on her song prompt, _I'm in Love with a Big Blue Frog_ by Peter, Paul, and Mary (which is so crazy if you combine it with Middle earth in your head:D), the story turned into a co-writing fest :) Reese, Kili's beloved, is her OC and I can't imagine him with anybody else anymore :) Check out her stories, so worth it! And might be useful later *wink* Collaborating turned out so sweet that we hardly will be able to stay away from it! :D**

_1976, Winnipeg Folk Festival_

The girl stumbled on a root and swore under her breath. The old habit of not mentioning the name in vain made her halt for a second after that, and she shook her head. You can take a girl from an oppressive religious upbringing, but you can't turn her into a liberal independent woman right away. At least not without some booze.

The fire was warm and welcoming, and she looked at the faces of five people sitting around it. Well, four, the fifth was sitting slightly aside, leaning on a tree. The dark haired hunk caressing the guitar smiled back, white toothed inviting grin. She came closer, and he winked.

She slid on a log near him, and he bumped his shoulder into hers. "What's your name, foxy?"

"Wren," it was not her name really, but she was a free bird these days. And no way in hell she would ever admit being named Eunice Edna.

"Killian, and that's my brother Phil." The blond was even hotter, shagadelic to her taste. Or not. She could never choose between chocolate and butterscotch. She was a real daughter of the prairies. She liked both in her fudge.

The other two sitting there were a young skinny kid, probably around seventeen, and an immensely foxy chick. For a second Wren thought that if given a choice she would go for the girl instead of either of the brothers. Short dark hair cut like a pixie's, lively brown eyes, striking cheekbones. Wren especially liked the mouth, sensual and strong, she could imagine that is a mouth of a person who laughs a lot. The girl smiled and stretched her hand, "Reese." The voice was sexy and warm, and Wren smiled wider.

Wren liked the combination of confidence and femininity surrounding Reese's small but curvy body. In a gauzy blue peasant top that left her shoulders bare, and soft denim bell bottoms, she looked chill and endlessly appetizing. She had graceful collarbones and slender wrists. Yes, Wren definitely liked her a lot.

"That's my Uncle John there," Killian waved his hand towards the fifth one. He seemed to be sleeping, large heavy body leaning on the trunk. "And that's Orwell." Wren shook the youngest kid's hand and a feeling of kinship flooded her. Another child of Steinbeck no doubt. "Do you sing, Wren?"

"Lord, no!" she squeaked. She was honestly straightforward horrible.

"Uncle, will you sing with us?" The guy by the tree slightly turned his head towards the fire and opened his eyes. They were so bright blue, and Wren felt heat pooling in her underwear. Once his face was lit with the fire, she realized that she was not having any butterscotch or chocolate tonight. She was indulging in a copious amount of that aged Canadian Club.

He smirked lopsidedly, "Not if you are holding the guitar, kid. Stop torturing the instrument and give it to your girl."

Killian sighed and passed the guitar to Reese. She had to stand to take it from him and dipped in for a lingering kiss before she settled back, throwing the guitar strap over her neck. She began plucking at the strings experimentally. "You didn't have it tuned, baby," she murmured distractedly before tightening the strings. Killian only laughed and shrugged while his uncle snorted behind him.

"Any requests?" she asked, glancing around the circle. Everyone shook their head, and so she dropped her gaze back to the strings before picking up a slow folk tune. "Reminiscent of Woodstock," Reese said as the tune took melody, conjuring images and memories of 1969.

Glancing up at the new addition to the group, she added, "I don't like to sing either, but don't any of you hold back now, you know," with a grin and a wink at Wren, noticing the redhead's wide open curious eyes, before dropping back to concentrate on the strings.

Reese hadn't missed the way Wren's eyes had lingered on John as he sat brooding by the tree before returning her gaze to the fire. She was really drawn to the new girl. She loved her dress, belted at the waist and falling to the ground. She loved how it was a shocking shade of pink that clashed horribly with her red hair, which Reese was terribly jealous of. She'd always wanted long curly red hair and would definitely have worn it with bright pink of she'd had it. As a rule Reese avoided pink because everyone always told her how good it looked with her dark hair, making her feel like a cupcake.

Reese also loved Wren's freckles and admired how the freckles served to add to Wren's beauty, standing out on her porcelain white skin. They even sprayed across her adorable delicate nose. Her eyes were slightly slanted, and Reese wondered if she were to get a close look if she'd find that they were green. It would be too perfect if she did find them to be green.

Wren's red lips appeared to be quirked in a permanent smile, and the entire effect gave her the appearance of an exotic wood nymph, playful and mischievous. Appearances aside though, she loved how Wren had just fallen in with them so easily. She seemed friendly and chill and like she could be a lot of fun.

Reese was thoughtful as she continued to strum quietly. Killian's uncle was a good guy but had a tendency to come across as brooding, almost sulky. Maybe it was the result of having to help his sister raise his nephews after their father had died, and the brooding and serious demeanor had simply become a habit. They'd talked him into coming to the festival with them in hopes that he would kick back and have a good time. She always enjoyed his company, but she'd never really seen him relax in all of the eight years she and Killian had been together. Maybe it was premature, but possibly this Wren girl was just what they'd hoped to find to help John relax a bit.

Wren sat and listened to Reese's quiet soft voice, when she heard John joining in. Her eyebrows hiked up, surprised that he even knew the words. Seemingly without any effort he was following the melody, his voice deep and smoky. And then she fully realized the effect his low velvet was having on her body. Tingly little shocks were running through her spine. She shivered and turned to look at him.

He still looked rather peevish, but it was obvious he enjoyed singing. His posture was relaxed, but she worked with men every day and knew that that was a fake laid back attitude. The guy was uncomfortable. And then his nephew offered a wonderful solution to that problem.

Killian lit up a joint. "Do you smoke?"

"Not cigarettes," Wren smiled coyly, and Killian chuckled as he passed it to her. Wren inhaled deeply before passing it to Phil, who then gave it back to her, skipping Orwell.

"Come on, guys," Orwell whined as the brothers laughed at his disappointment.

"Sorry buddy," Phil said. "We're not that loose. Give it a couple years."

Killian settled beside Reese, bringing the joint to her lips so that she didn't need to stop playing. She felt the electrical charge from his nearness that was always present, even after eight years together. He pulled the joint away as she inhaled before bringing his lips to hers, surprising her and making her cough. "Jesus," she sputtered. "I hate it when you do that." He laughed at her playfully, and she couldn't help joining him. He stood and moved behind her, nestling her between his legs as he rubbed her back while she coughed.

Killian leaned backwards and passed the joint to his uncle, who to Wren's surprise took it. She tried not to look, but the thought of his lips closing on it made her peek. The view didn't disappoint. The fingers were long, palm large, and she absolutely loved the way he hollowed his cheeks under a thick black beard breathing in.

Finally able to stop coughing, Reese resumed playing. "You're a goof," she huffed at Killian, catching Wren's eyes and winking at her again, liking how Wren grinned back at her.

"Do you like Peter, Paul, and Mary?" Reese asked her before switching to a more playful song, targeted at Killian. "I'm in love with a big blue frog and a big blue frog love me." All but Killian joined in on the next line, "It's not as bad as it appears. He wears glasses and he's six foot three!" before erupting into laughter at his expense.

Reese felt Killian laughing too before he leaned forward to murmur, "Very funny," and then playfully nipped at her ear, making goosebumps rise on her skin.

John got up and came to the fire. He sat on the log near Orwell, who immediately tensed. Wren didn't blame him, the guy was intimidating. Large wide body, dark hair in a ponytail, an overall gloomy disposition. She couldn't wait to sink her teeth in it. She caught Orwell's eyes and gave him an encouraging wink. He blushed.

John leaned and picked up a bottle of beer. And then he pushed another one in Orwell's hand. The kid's face lit up. "Not for you, pass it to our guest." Orwell's face dropped but he grabbed the bottle and got up. He made a few steps towards Wren, but she was faster. In a swift move she got up, picked up the beer from his hand and flopped into Orwell's empty seat. She smiled into John's widened eyes and took a swig. "Hi." The heavy brows hiked up.

Orwen shifted between his feet confusedly before sitting in Wren's place. Phil clapped him on the back and turned to the girl, "So what is it that you do, Wren?"

"I work in Dominion Motors."

"Really?" Phil's bafflement was mirrored on others' faces as well.

"Do you take calls?" John's low voice made her turn to him. She chuckled and put the bottle on the ground. Then she splayed her fingers and showed her hands, first to him and then to the rest of the group. They were calloused and black from the oil and grime that could never come off completely.

"I fix engines, and you are a chauvinistic pig." Her tone was light though, and she bumped her shoulder into him. He was staring at her. She drank some more beer and licked her lips.

Orwell expressed everyone's opinion when he breathed out, "Wicked..."

Wren looked at John appraisingly. "You are the grumpy uptight type, aren't you?" She suddenly pushed her small hands into his hair, and he choked on his drink. "You need a couple braids in here. To match the gig, you know." She was so obviously teasing him that Killian roared with laughter. She shook her copper mane, "I can sacrifice a couple of my beads for you." She laughed into his stunned face and winked to Reese.

Reese bit back a grin, surprised but not disliking Wren's forwardness, and changed the tune again, the song familiar, and the group started to sing when Killian murmured into Reese's again, "Did you see how the little bird is looking at uncle?" Reese nodded, not wanting to risk being heard but glad the singing drowned out his lower voice.

Killian continued to nuzzle Reese's ear lightly, and she finally whispered. "You don't think she's a little young for him?"

Killian snorted. "She doesn't seem to care. Age is just a number."

Reese smiled at his cavalier attitude. He could never let things happen on their own, though, and her eyes widened in alarm as he whispered suddenly, "I have a fab idea." Killian's ideas didn't always turn out well.

"Orwell, Phil, can you guys jog back to the car to grab more beer? I think we just finished the last of it."

"Right on!" said Orwell, jumping to his feet eager to please. Phil was more reluctant.

"Get it yourself, you chump," he muttered.

"I'm busy," Killian said, nuzzling into Reese's shoulder. Reese was sure he wore the pouty look he got that Phil could never resist in him. Killian knew his audience well.

Phil sighed loudly and dramatically as he rose to his feet, muttering as Orwell took off at a run. Reese wondered what Killian was up to, thinking it was horribly unfair of him to get his brother to walk so far. The car was easily a thirty minute walk each way. Phil really would do anything for Killian.

Suddenly Killian stood up, pulling a surprised Reese to her feet with him. "Excuse us," he said unceremoniously. His uncle snorted as Killian caught Reese's lips in a dramatic, heated kiss, leaving no question about the reason for his sudden desire to pull her out of the clearing and into the surrounding bushes.

Reese glanced apologetically at Wren as she rested the guitar on the ground. "We'll be back."

Wren's answer proved Reese's suspicion that the girl was a kindred soul and that John was so in for it. "Take your time," the redhead saluted them with her beer, and they stumbled into the bushes with laughter, Killian grabbing her by the hand and twirling her a couple times as they went.

Wren looked at the backs of the leaving couple. They were so groovy, and acute envy clenched her heart. There was a heated passion between them, and a warm intimacy, and an obvious ardent friendship. The way he was hugging her from behind, their bodies fitting like two pieces of puzzle, as cliche as it sounded even in her head, showed the obvious connection between them. They were a beautiful couple, her perky and robust bosom, shapely hips, tiny waist, his wide shoulders, narrow hips, the way they moved in accordance, their bodies constantly touching. Wren mused that they obviously had the best of both a long time couple with their familiarity and connectivity, and a still burning fire of those who just became lovers. Wren sighed and looked at the man she was left with alone.

He sat seemingly relaxed, elbows on his knees, large hands loosely hanging between his long legs. Wren peaked, the bottle in his hand was almost empty. She thought she saw a bit of flush on the cheekbones, and she hoped that would make him a bit more chill.

"So what is it that you do, John?" He looked at her from the corner of his eye.

"I teach computer science at the university."

"You are a prof? That's so far out!" He lifted a brow. "Do your students leave an apple on your table, John?" He sat up straighter and looked at her attentively.

"You are an odd one, Wren."

"You will find, John, that the right term is a shick chick," she smiled wider and clanked her bottle to his.

And then she moved closer so that her shoulder was touching his upper arm. He was so much bigger that she had to lift her face to look him in the eyes. "You have no idea how to mellow out, do you?" His lips twitched in a suppressed smile.

"That's what my nephews always say. That I need to mellow out," he mockingly drew out the term as if emphasizing its evident preposterousness.

"As a prof you should understand that it all comes down to the choice of teaching material," she took the bottle from his hand, and he followed it with his eyes. And then she got up and stood in front of him. For once he needed to lift his face to look at her. She cupped his face and gently scratched the beard.

She licked her lips stretching the anticipation. He was not resisting but neither did he encourage her in any way. She moved even closer, between his knees, and her little palms slid on his ears. She rubbed the pinnae and pulling slightly she tilted his head back some more. He obeyed, and she lowered her lips on his.

She started gently, soft caresses of slightly open lips, the tip of her tongue sliding on his bottom lip. He inhaled sharply, and his palms lay on her waist. She smiled into the kiss, and slid one hand at the back of his head, down the neck and under the collar of his blue button-up. The fingers of another hand leapt onto the buttons on his shirt, opening three of them and then she returned her palm to his nape. She pushed both hands around his shoulder down his back. Her upper body presses into him, and he finally tightened his grip on her.

He either had been holding himself back before, or he was a quick learner, but he started catching up with her, her scorching palms sliding down and grabbing her buttocks. She chuckled and nipped his lip. The hands squeezed her bum.

She stepped back and tilted her head. She gave him a look over, enjoying the view of flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips. He frowned in confusion. And then she stretched her hand to him. "Common, do you really want to stay here and your nephews to catch you making out with a random bird?"

He placed his hand into her small strong hand, and she pulled him up. "Where are we going?" He had to clear out his throat, his voice gruff.

"Well, it will be hard to find an unoccupied patch, but I'm sure we'll manage."

She led him among the trees, peeking at him from time to time. His face was increasingly hesitant, and she realized he needed reminding why he even went with her. She sharply turned around and pushed his back into the nearest tree. And then she actually jumped a little and pulled him down to herself.

"You are wickedly tall, dude," she smiled into his eyes, "You'll have to meet me halfway here, John." He paused a second and then making an internal decision he pressed his lips to hers. He tasted delicious, and she moaned into his mouth.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and this time he started backing her up, until she smacked her back into a trunk. And then he placed his hands on the tree, on the sides of her head, bending down, deepening the kiss.

"It's best if you sit, John," he hummed in agreement, obviously having not heard what she said. She chuckled and slightly pushed him away from her neck, that he was sucking on. "Sit!" His brows jumped up, and he gave her an impish smirk. That was a new expression, and suddenly she thought she might have bitten off way more that she could chew. But it was too late to back up. And besides, he was delectable!

He spun them around and sat down, his back to the tree. While sitting down he managed to brush the tip of his nose to one of her breasts, and she giggled.

"You are full of delightful surprises, aren't you John?" He grabbed her hand and pulled her down. She picked up her skirt and lowered herself, straddling him. He cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers into her mane, and for a second he paused and looked into her laughing eyes.

Whatever he saw there seemed to convince him he was doing the right thing, and he caught her mouth. Kissing, learning each other, hands exploring bodies, her fingers deftly opened the rest of his buttons. Normally Wren would go for less chest hair, less mass, and less of everything, to be honest, but his wide chest, hot skin, hard muscles felt surprisingly perfect. She trailed her tongue along his neck and gently bit into his jaw. The beard added to the experience.

His hands were on her shoulder blades, and he felt a row of buttons on the back of the dress. He managed four and then growled in frustration. She chuckled, "Don't you dare ruining my dress, you putz!" He lifted a brow. "No," she drew her brows together in a mocking strict grimace, and he chuckled.

"You are a bossy one," somehow he sounded pleased with it.

"I am also very skinny," she laughed and shimmied her shoulders out of the top of the dress. It pooled on her waist.

"Convenient," he smirked and unclasped her bra. She helped him pull it off, and his large palms covered the small peaks.

"Not much to offer here, sorry," she gave him a cheeky grin.

"They are perfect," he pulled her for an unhurried kiss. They somehow slowed down and spent some time exploring more. And then she pushed her hand in a pocket and pulled out a condom.

"I see you came prepared."

"I used to be a Girl Guide. Not quite a scout, but I'm all for their motto, you know," she pushed from him for a second and her fingers slid on the buckle of his jeans.

A bit of shuffling, and her strong hand encircled his cock. He puffed air out. "It's been a while." She cocked her head on the side.

"Well, it's like riding a bike," she rolled the condom over him, and lifted her body over him. He placed his palms under her knees, and she giggled.

"Ticklish?" He smiled back at her, and then the palms slid up, bunching up the skirt, and he hooked his fingers on the waist of her underwear. With this problem solved, she lowered herself on him.

She went slowly, it had been a while for her too, and with his rather impressive length finally buried in her, she realized she'd been holding her breath and exhaled. He was taking measured breaths too.

"I know you are probably feeling a bit impatient here, but can we do something for me, John?" Her tone was surprisingly even and polite. He blinked, trying really hard to concentrate on her.

"Sure, what can I do you for?" She chuckled at the pun and quickly kissed his lips.

"Can I turn around? It really works so much better for me."

"Turn around whe…?" He choked on his question when she swung her leg on the other side on his body, and then slowly turned her whole body, her pelvis still firmly pressed into him, now she was facing away from him.

He sat up and pushed her hair away from her nape. Then he presses his lips to the smooth skin there, and his palms slid on her breasts. She arched into him and started moving. He could not keep the loud groan back.

Her hips setting a nice forceful rhythm, her arms thrown back, wrapped around his neck, his mouth pressing greedy open-mouthed kisses to her neck and shoulders, they were moving in a surprising for their first time accordance. He encircled her tiny waist with his hands, index fingers and thumbs almost meeting around it, but soon the palms slid on the hips, helping her move.

She was right, the position was definitely working for her. Soon enough she was making small adorable mewling noises and painfully grabbing handfuls of his hair. He knew he was going to cum any moment and to his own surprise he realized he really needed her to go first.

A new woman, a new body to deal with, he could only rely on his guts. One hand still caressing her breast, he slid another down onto her clit and gently rubbed the bundle of nerves. She moaned louder but it was hard to say if he was making any progress. She was apparently very vocal in general. And he really couldn't muster enough coherence to ask.

He bit into her shoulder, holding back with the remnants of his will power, when she grabbed his hand and roughly pressed it to her clit. In a sudden surge of inspiration he pressed his thumb to it and gave it a forceful swirl. She cried out and came.

Her muscles clenched around him. He barked a swear. She was tight to start with, now it felt like she was choking him. In the best possible of ways. He groaned and came as well. She fell ahead, her small palms pressed into his legs, small body shaking, delicate back in front of his eyes. And in the last moment before his brain turned off completely, he grabbed her and pulled to himself.

She twisted her neck and he caught her mouth in an askew kiss. She moaned into his mouth, her walls still milking him, and he moaned as well. He fell back, the bark of a tree scratching his back through the shirt that they hadn't taken off. She relaxed into his body, and suddenly picked up his hand. She pulled it to her lips and kissed the inside of his wrist. A caress was unexpected and unusual, but wasn't everything about her?

He nuzzled her hair and then chuckled. "Are you thinking of how your nephew set us up so smoothly?" He froze in surprise. That was exactly what he was thinking about. "They are fab, I hope they are having fun in the bushes as well." John didn't miss the "as well".

She slid off him, and he groaned. Then she turned around and sit on his legs just above his knees. "I think I really like you, John." He licked his lips.

"I think I really like you back." She smiled.

"Then let's make it worthwhile. After all your nephew and his foxy chick now have to wonder through woods to give us some room. Might as well enjoy it to the max."

Reese and Killian had fallen silent as they moved deeper into the trees. They didn't speak at all, comfortably waiting until they were alone. They had to walk quite a distance, passing several other groups and couples, before finally reaching a secluded area that afforded them some privacy.

"So," Reese began lightly as they stopped in a small clearing far from the noise of the festival, "Do you think you've managed to weave your magic around your uncle and that poor girl?"

"Was is too much?" he asked, suddenly sounding insecure in his impulsive decision. This was a side of Killian only she and Phil got to see, the one that worried about what others thought of him, whose confidence was constantly quaking, so different from the spirited self assurance he was careful to portray when around others.

"No," she reassured him as she pulled him into a kiss. "Although we'll see what Phil says after he's done hiking to the car to find you didn't forget any beer there." Killian laughed, a lot less concerned about what Phil thought of him than what John did.

"I hope he goes for it," he mused as she began to unbutton his shirt. "He seems so lonely."

Reese murmured her agreement as she kissed the skin revealed behind each button of his shirt. "I just worry so much that he's going to be alone for ever, you know?" Killian continued as Reese nodded and she pushed his shirt back from his shoulders. She loved his broad shoulders and brought her mouth to nuzzle gently as his collarbone before carefully trailing her tongue to his shoulder. She brought her hands to his wrists and firmly slid her hands up his arms, bringing them to toy with the shaggy hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck.

"I just hope he goes for it," Killian murmured again, distractedly. Reese wondered if John knew how much Killian worried about him. His brow was furrowed and he didn't seem to have noticed that she was toying with the waist of his pants, trailing her fingers over the sensitive skin by his hips.

"Baby," she murmured, "Did you drag me all the way out here just to talk about your uncle?"

Killian blinked in surprise before looking down at her as though he'd forgotten she was there. He stared at her for a moment before grinning and dropping his head to capture her lips with is. "Sorry," he murmured as he brought his hand up to cup her face gently, his kiss deep and slow. Breaking the kiss he murmured against her lips, "Is that better?" She nodded as he kissed her softly again before moving to place light kisses along her jaw. Reese dropped her head back with a sigh as Killian ran his tongue down the side of her neck to her shoulder, nipping gently at her collarbone.

"She's very sexy, don't you think?" Reese mused as Kili's mouth moved to her bare shoulder, his hands straying underneath her loose shirt to gently stroke the skin at her lower back. He paused, raising his head to look at her again, one eyebrow quirked. Reese smirked at him before she continued, "Don't be a goof. But I wouldn't kick her out of bed."

He laughed as he pulled her tunic up over her head, baring her breasts to the cool night air. They'd always joked about the possibility of bringing someone else into their bed but hadn't ever pursued it, despite living in the time of free love. Killian dropped his hands to her hips and stood considering her. "I could never share you with anyone," he said as his eyes came to gaze into hers.

She shook her head, bringing her arms up to hang loosely over his shoulders. "Me neither," she whispered as he moved in to kiss her again, never breaking their gaze. He stopped just before his lips touched hers.

"I love you," he whispered, his breath tickling the skin of her upper lip.

"I love you too," she answered as she closed the remaining distance between their mouths. As their lips moved over each others'. Killian dropped his hands to cup Reese's breasts, weighing them gently as his thumb grazed over the peak. She moaned softly while he continued to circle her nipples with his thumbs, slowly teasing them into hard points. He grinned as she moaned again. As much as Killian experienced insecurity in his day to day life, this was an area where his confidence never wavered.

Reese's hands dropped to his waist as she unbuttoned his jeans. He of course wasn't wearing underwear. He never did.

She tickled the sensitive skin between his hips, slowly unzipping his fly. Reese grazed his pelvis with her nails, making him break their kiss as he moaned in protest when her hands stopped at the base of his cock, leaving it trapped in his pants. She wanted to slow things down, even briefly, wanting to fully enjoy this moment of privacy together.

Killian leaned his forehead against hers while his hands dropped to her waist, breathing deeply as she stroked her hands up his abdomen, his muscles rippling slightly at the light touch, before skimming her nails down towards his straining erection again. This time she tugged his jeans lightly, pulling them down just enough that his erection could spring free, hanging heavily between his legs. Rather than touching him, she dragged her hands over his hips while dropping her mouth to capture his nipple, nipping lightly before circling it with her tongue while her hands trailed to his jeans now slung low on his hips, stopping to dip into the cleft between his buttocks. Killian dropped his head back in a moan, his eyes fluttering shut, as she traced her fingers downwards, dragging them lightly between his ass cheeks, pushing his pants over his hips as they fell to his ankles. As her fingers reached the bottom of his bum, dipping lightly between his legs, she drew them around his hips again to finally grasp his straining cock in her hands.

This time the growl issued from Killian was low and raw as he brought his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss while thrusting his hips forward, rutting his cock against her hand. Suddenly hungry and demanding, he quickly kicked off his boots and jeans, pushing her to the ground to lie beneath him. She didn't mind the feel of the cold ground against her skin, drinking in the scent of the earth and trees in the cool night air.

Reese gasped as Killian caught her nipple in his mouth, biting it lightly before moving his mouth down her abdomen until he arrived at the waist of her denim bell bottoms. Undoing her fly, he brought his hands to her back to lift her hips as he drew her pants off, tossing them aside as he spread her legs to settle between them, lowering his mouth to her.

Reese cried out quietly as he ran his tongue over her folds before bringing it to circle her clit lightly. Planting her feet firmly she whimpered as she drove her hips upward trying to grind into him as he flicked his tongue. "Alright my love," he laughed as he brought his hands to her, slowly sliding a long finger into her while continuing to expertly swirl her clit with his tongue. Reese whimpered at the feel of his finger inside of her, groaning as he curled his finger upwards to stroke the bundle of nerves against her inner wall. She continued to drive herself down onto his hand as he added two more fingers, stretching her deliciously as he continued to lave her clit.

Reese threw one arm over her eyes as she always did when she felt herself approaching orgasm while Killian was going down on her. Her mind was flooded with tantalizing images and memories of all the sex they'd had together. A particularly arousing image of their spending their five year anniversary at a swingers' party floated into her mind. Although they were unwilling to share each other with anyone else, they had no issues with enjoying each other in front of an audience. It had been one of the sexiest evenings they'd spent together, and its memories frequently served to hasten her climax.

Reese held her breath before groaning as her orgasm took her, becoming rigid as she bucked her hips upwards. Killian's mouth latched onto her clitoris, prolonging the torrent that gripped her body. Not waiting too long, Killian rose up above her and positioned himself between her legs before plunging deeply into her. Reese sobbed as he filled her completely, her knees rising up beside his hips to allow him to push deeply into her. Killian groaned as she clenched her muscles around him to draw him in fully. They clung to each other, taking a moment to breathe, before Killian withdrew slowly and thrust back into Reese as she tangled her arms around his back, arching forward to bury her face in his neck and rock her hips forward to meet his.

Reese felt her orgasm mounting again as their bodies moved together and before long violent pleasure tore through her. Reese writhed beneath Killian as her muscles clenched him tightly, making him groan deeply as he continued to snap his hips forward. Killian's breath caught as his eyes squeeze tightly shut, his movements becoming erratic as a moan caught in his throat. He thrust into Reese deeply as he came, a strangled groan wrenched from his body.

Killian collapsed over her, gasping for breath. He was heavy on top of her, and Reese rolled her shoulder slightly forward to prop him up so that she was still able to draw breathe comfortably while he recovered. She stroked his back gently, his skin slick with sweat, before Killian rolled off of her suddenly, withdrawing from her and releasing a gush of fluid over her thighs. They lay beside each other, looking up at the dark night sky with their hands tangled together.

Killian broke the silence first. "Do you think it's too early to go back?"

Reese shrugged. "Who knows. Phil and Orwell will be back soon anyway so we might as well." She rolled towards him, stretching to kiss him lightly on his scruff before they rose to their feet, looking for discarded clothing in the dark. They were silent again as they made their way back through the trees towards the camp.

Reese woke the next day curled into Killian's warmth, pale light of the morning filtering through the fabric of the tent. She could hear the crackling of a fire, assuming it was likely built by Phil who tended to wake early. She could hear him moving around the campsite carefully. Reese rolled slowly, careful not to wake Killian, as she drew a loose dress and bulky sweater over her naked body, before quietly exiting the tent.

Moving towards the campfire she smiled at Phil. "Good morning," she murmured quietly, not wishing to make noise that would wake the others. Orwell was also still sleeping. "Any sign of John this morning?" she asked. When Reese and Killian had returned to the campsite, Phil and Orwell had been back but both John and Wren were gone. John hadn't been in his tent when they'd checked it, and Killian had been delighted.

"It doesn't mean that they're together, you know," Reese had said, but Killian had been positive that John and Wren had snuck off somewhere to shag.

Phil shook his head but added, "I heard him go into his tent last night around 3 a.m." Reese smiled at him fondly. Knowing Phil, he had likely been waiting up for their uncle, slightly worried that something may have happened to him. Phil and Killian were often getting into trouble, but Phil was mostly dragged along by Killian out of desire to protect Killian from disaster. Phil was always taking care of everyone, worrying and making sure they were all okay.

"Cool," Reese said as she settled on a log, pulling her sweater around her against the dewy morning. She could hear a band starting up at the main stage but knew it was unlikely any of their group would find their way to the stage for hours. Orwell could sleep until supper if permitted, and when Killian woke he tended to be peevish, not quite the morning person one would expect in someone normally so upbeat and chipper.

Reese and Phil sat in silence staring into the fire when suddenly their reverie was broken by a low growl followed by a giggle. Reese's head whipped towards the noise, determining that it was in fact coming from John's tent. The giggle had definitely been made by a female. Never in her life could she imagine John, or any Durinson for that matter, giggling. Her jaw dropped as she quickly turned back to look at Phil, whose features mirrored her own surprised delight. Reese settled more comfortably onto the log, grinning at Phil as they relaxed back into silence.

After several minutes, the silence was broken again by another moan, this one slightly louder than the first, followed by a quiet hushing noise. Reese clapped her hand over her mouth this time as her eyes caught Phil's again, barely able to stifle a laugh. Phil looked torn between wanting to laugh himself and pain at bearing active witness to his uncles' sexual exploits. Even in the age of free love, everyone had their limits.

Reese barely suppressed a snort as another low moan, definitely John's, came from the tent, and Phil dropped his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with laughter. Looking up at her over his hands, he shook his head in dismay.

Reese jerked her head towards the entrance to the site questioningly and mimed walking with her hands. Killian and Orwell were both heavy sleepers and would not be woken by the lovers' soft sounds, but Reese was more interested in a calm relaxed walk than trying to ignore the sexual show going on only ten feet away. Phil nodded gratefully, and they both rose to their feet, ready to vacate the area and allow the lovers some privacy.

It seemed that Reese was more concerned about John and Wren's privacy than they were, though, as the noises from the tent reached a fevered pitch and a female voice cried out. "Oh god, oh god, oh god!"

Reese froze, her eyes as large as saucers as she looked at Phil who stood rigid in the spot, horror plastered across his features .

"Wren, you are too loud..." John's low voice growled, only to be interrupted by Wren's commanding tone.

"Put your mouth back when you had it!"

Reese and Phil turned quickly, moving away from the campsite as quickly as possible, unsuccessfully as they heard Wren cry out shamelessly as she presumably achieved her climax via John's ministrations. This event was closely followed by the sound of a tent unzipping. Reese looked over to see Killian standing in the entrance to their tent, stark naked, holding her straw cowboy hat in front of his crotch, hair wildly disheveled, red lines down the side of his face where the blankets had been bunched under his cheek while he slept, with a look of fury on his face. "Who is being so fucking loud?" he shouted crossly. "It's barely dawn, and I'm trying to god damn fucking sleep."

"Watch your tongue, Killian!" John's booming voice came from the tent, and Reese bit her lip so that Kili wouldn't see her laugh. John was always a guardian, even with his face apparently between a girl's legs.

"And you put yours back to use," Wren's voice was both assertive and seductive.

This was too much for Phil who was now crouched on the ground, holding his head in his hands as he groaned. Reese stood shaking her head as she took in all of Killian's furious naked glory, particularly enjoying the full view of his backside as he turned back into the tent, crushing her hat as he flopped forward on his stomach to presumably go back to sleep, not even bothering to close the door of the tent again. She noticed not a sound came from John's tent now and one would never had guessed at the lascivious noises that had been issued by its occupants only moments before.

Orwell crawled out of the tent he was sharing with Phil and groggily made his way over to the fire, rubbing his eyes. "Hey, what's going on?" he muttered sleepily, clearly not expecting an answer as he sat down, yawning widely.

Reese and Phil looked at each other and shrugged. Abandoning their walk, Reese busied herself with making coffee while Phil asked Orwell if he wanted breakfast. Kili's loud snores told them he had returned to sleep and permeated their discussion as Phil and Orwell began to laugh about some of the antics they'd seen other festival goers up to during their walk to the car.

Reese moved to her tent and reached into the open door to pull out her guitar, murmuring, "Hey Baby," to Killian as she jostled him gently, disrupting his snores. He groaned in protest as she said, "There's coffee."

Reese returned to the fire and began to strum her guitar quietly, laughing along with Phil and Orwell's stories as the smell of toast and potatoes began to permeate the campfire. Killian finally came to join them, his pants barely hanging from his naked hips as he stumbled to the fire, holding a t-shirt in his hand. He sat beside Reese with a groan who set aside her guitar briefly and reached to pour him a cup of coffee, pushing it into his hands. He grunted in thanks and she saw the hint of a reluctant smile quirk his lips.

Suddenly they quieted as they heard loud laughter coming from John's tent, followed by Wren's voice. "Stop tickling me, you brute!"

Reese heard John guffaw and raised her eyebrows at Killian, wondering if she'd ever heard John sound so relaxed before. The sound of the zipper on John's tent followed, and he literally fell out of the tent to the ground, laughing. Reese grinned at the scene, not missing the flash of a pink bead in his hair attached to the end of a long braid by his ear.

Wren coolly stepped over John, her posture dignified and proud. Reese had to bite her lip again to keep from laughing as Wren regally surveyed the group before her, Phil staring at her and Kili glowering again, while Orwell looked around in confusion.

And then Reese couldn't help but applaud laughingly as Wren suddenly swept into a low bow before her audience, her unruly curls bouncing and burning in the morning sun.


	23. Nirvana

**A/N: Here you go, ****Count Rabbit****, just like you asked! Back to Biker!Thorin and thank you for the song prompt! Can I have my virtual box of cookies now? :P**

_**Come As You Are **_**by Nirvana**

"You are such a prick!" You rush out of the joint, and the door slams behind you. Only to be kicked open again. He storms out, teeth bared in a snarl, massive hands clenched in fists. "Get back in there right now!"

You swirl on your heels, "Or what? I am not your thing, you tosser! You don't get to drive me like your bike!" He steps closer, towering over you, wide body clad in black leather. "Don't ball me up, woman!" "Oh don't give me your biker's tosh!" You point your finger at his long nose. "I am not your brainless bint!" He grabs your upper arm. "You might not be a bint, but you are exactly mine! Now get your backside into the joint!"

You jerk your arm out of his grip and start walking away. "If you leave now, don't come back!" You know him well, that is not a hundred per cent sure tone. And let's face, that is not your first row. Frankly having a row seems to be the thing you two mostly do. And then wild shagging afterwards. Works for you.

He predictably catches up with you and pushes you into the wall. His hot palm pushes up your thigh, under the leather mini, and without further ado he cups between your legs. Never fails with you. He catches your mouth, and the second hand jerks the collar of your new black sequin top. You really made an effort for him today.

"Careful, you wanker!" You twist your mouth from under his greedy lips, "It is a hundred quid." "I'll buy you another," he jerks it down and grabs your tit through the black lace of you bra. The fingers of his other hand slide under the knickers, and he dips them into you. You moan and bite his beard covered jaw. You are leaving your favourite part for a wee bit later.

He swirls you with surprising dexterity, fingers continuing to pump into you, and pushes you into the dark alley behind the joint. You momentarily remember that's where it all started, and you heat up more. You shove your hands into his hair and finally indulge yourself. You lower your mouth on his neck and give the tattoo a long, languished lick. He growls. He really appreciates that trick of yours.

The black flames of ink come from the between his shoulder blades, lick the shoulder and upper arm and sneak behind his right ear. That's where you mouth is going right now as well. And then you bite into his ear. Hard. He jerks his hand out of your fanny and slams you into the wall.

You try to fall on your knees, your hands already on the buckle of his leather trousers, but he presses your shoulder into the brickwall with one hand, batters your greedy hands away from him and jerks his fly open himself.

And then he picks you up, deftly pushes your knickers to the side, supporting you with one arm, and pushes into you with a long low growl. He keeps you suspended, your legs around his waist, one of his hands on your buttock, another pressed into the wall.

He puts his feet wider, for stability and greater momentum, and then he does that thing that drives you completely mental with lust every time. He tilts his head on a side and cracks his neck, as if before a laborious task, like an athlete before a jump. And then he pounds into you, your back hitting the wall, and you moan. And again, and again, and again…

You are pulling his hair, eyes closed, fully concentrated on the delicious massive cock thrusting into you, hitting your cervix, rubbing all the right spots. You are especially enjoying the string of dirty swearings he is snarling through his teeth. Sometimes when you actually listen to his mumbling, you catch some proprietary claims and even emotional jibber jabber there, something in the lines "only mine" and "my babe" in there. But right now you are more concerned with your impending orgasm.

And it is here. Boom! You cry out, clawing on the back of his head and neck. And then suddenly he sharply stops and starts gently rocking into you. Wow, that's new... You guess he is not that far gone as you thought. But at the moment all you can do is gratefully mewl and ride the wave. No other guy has ever made you come that hard! And it's not the size, although it is mental and how does it even fit? It is the overall determination to shag your brains out on everyday basis.

You recover slightly and open your eyes. The burning blue ones in front of you are surprisingly tender, and he presses a passionate kiss to your lips. And then gently rocks into you, and again, and again... And it's so new, so unusual, and so not you two, that you feel tears coming. And then he mumbles something into your lips. It sounds suspiciously like "I love you", and you sob. And come the second time. And he follows.

He is leaning into the wall, you are pressed between him and the bricks, your legs still around his hips, your arms wrapped around his neck. He is breathing heavily, his hot exhales tickling your neck. "What were we fighting about?" You ask absent-mindedly into the blue sky.

"That scouser was staring at you, and you smiled to him." You scratch him behind ear. "Plonker! You are so thick. I was smiling to the hasher, wanted to get our order faster." He chuckles into your neck and murmurs, "And now we didn't get any food..." "We can still go back, I'm sure your mates looked after your grub."

He carefully lowers you on the ground, and you sway. You shimmy your hips and fix your clothes. "Sod with the food, can we go home? I want a bath. I am sore and sticky." He leans in and gives you a tender kiss. "Whatever you want, love."


	24. Arrival

**A/N: For ****RagdollPrincess****. I know how much you like Amrod. What can I say? I really tried! :P**

**Modest Mussorgsky, "The Pictures from the Exhibition: Old Castle"**

Please, please, let it be an old chatty lady! With silver curls and a bunch of photos of her children and grandchildren, and her poodle, and her flowers in the garden. You are walking through the aisle, looking for your seat, and pray to all possible deities that it is not a middle-aged businessman who will be reading his newspaper all through the flight and never look at you for a second. You really need it to be a chatty old lady.

It is not. It is one of the most attractive men you have ever seen in your life. Bugger. He is exactly your type, maybe lacking a bit in width, but all together right to the point. Dark wavy hair, floppy, thick and healthily shiny, strong jawline, striking cheekbones, dark shadow on the clean shaven cheeks. Wide shoulders, and the neck that is just asking to be licked. Seriously, the first thought you have when looking at him is giving him a lovebite. Right there, on that tendon… And another one, on the collarbone. He looks at you and smiles. Bollocks.

You smile back, "Hi, that's me, 27B." He stretches his hand to you, "August." It is May. "Pardon?" "My name. My friends call me Auggie. You can too, we will be stuck with each other for four hours." That is a hell of a voice we are having here, Auggie. Fruity, smoky, with a slight hint of Southern American accent. Texas probably.

"Wren, nice to meet you." He has amazingly sexy hands. Large, very long fingers, both strong and elegant. The sleeves of his grey cardie are rolled up, and you can see slender wrists and muscular forearms. You haven't had sex in thirteen months. You hope it doesn't show.

You buckle in and exhale sharply. Bugger, an old lady would be still better. He might be distracting, fresh masculine perfume and heat radiating from his body, but damn, you are still scared shiteless. Bugger, bugger,bugger… You don't realize, you say it outloud.

"Not a fan of planes?" His voice is like maple syrup that you got completely addicted to. There is this one brand… Good, think about pancakes, don't think about burning cartilage of a plane. Fuck. "A bit." The knuckles of your hands are white, fingernails dug into the armrests. One thing is nice, there is no one on your left. You can claw at two armrests at the same time.

"Do you want my hand?" You screw your eyes at it. Damn, it is so tempting. "I wouldn't want to draw blood." He chuckles. "I'll survive." Sod it. You tentatively move your fingers closer, and his hand envelops yours. It looks tiny in his long fingers.

"So what is it you do, Wren?" The eyes are like chocolate truffles, dark, inviting, laughing, oh poop. Everything about him is warm, coffee, chocolate, chestnut and sex in front of a fire place… What the fuck was that thought? "I am a prof at uni. Medieval European literature." He hums. "I was doing my PhD in Carlton and now on my way back home to Calgary. You?" "Oil. I am an engineer." That explains Texan accent.

"Are you actually from the Lone Star State, or is the accent fake?" He laughs. That is a nice, open laugh, eyes twinkling and white teeth. "I am. But it's sort of fading here," he smirks and drawls in an exaggerated nasal voice, "But don't get all choked up, you looker, I sure'nuff still have it in me." You laugh, and he presses your fingers in his.

The plane jerks, and you dig nails into his palm. "Breathe, Wren, it is just like a car, but with wings." "That's what worries me." "Tell me about your accent, Wren, you sound British to me. Also an alien?" You bite into your bottom lip and shake your head. "Did my Bachelor in Leeds, Master's in Leicester, brought it from there." And some other things. A six foot four hottie with icy blue eyes, for example. The plane starts gaining speed and shaking. "Bollocks, bloody bollocks..." He chuckles, "I rest my case. You do sound British."

You are, as they say, losing it. Your breathing speeds up, and you see weird black spots in front of your eyes. It feels like the plane is going to fall apart right now, and you squeeze your eyes. "Common, Wren, talk to me. What is for you in Calgary? Family, friends? You are going to be there in a few hours, safe and unscathered, what is waiting for you there?"

You take a deeper breath. Sex, a lot of sex, wild, rough, against a wall sex. Think about it, concentrate Wren. Or divorce papers, may be, divorce papers. One out of two, with equal probability.

"I sort of have a husband there." "Sort of?" You peek, his eyebrows are hiked up, amused smile on his lips. These are very, very sexy. Full lower lips, the lines are strong, willful, and you breathe easier. "Well, we sort of separated, I haven't seen him for a year. But it's still sort of there..."

The wheels of the plane leave the ground, and you squeak. "OK, Wren, tell me about your husband, what's his name?" "John, his name is John. He is a lawyer." "Criminal law?' "Divorce lawyer." The irony really doesn't elude you. "Then you are in a pickle, Wren. If anything, he'll sue the hell out of you. Say goodbye to your nice shoes." You chuckle, "He won't look that good in them."

"So what happened, Wren? Did you cheat on him with some expert of Medieval armour?" "He didn't want me to leave for four years, he wanted a home and picketed fence and cats. I hate cats." "And a baby I gather?" Your eyes fly open, and you stare at him. He has very astute eyes. You nod.

"And now what?" "And now I'm done and going back. And we haven't talked for two months, and I emailed him my itinerary, and..." Why are you bloody telling him all that? The plane shakes, and you bite into your bottom lip. "And you don't know if he will be standing in the airport with a bouquet of roses..." "Or divorce papers," you nod, "but if anything it's probably not going to be roses, I love carnations." "Good to know, in case you do get divorced after all and agree to go out with me."

You look at him sideways. He is smiling. Smooth tosser. You let go off his hand, there are indeed marks from your nails in his palm, and you lean back in your seat. The flight attendant offers wine, and you even agree on some. You can't have more than a glass, but you sip, and he drinks his beer. You chat, and you think that he is one of the lightest, easiest people you have ever met in your life. Everything about him is bubbly, cheerful, sunny… Unlike in some other people we all know and... love. He is telling you a story of how his four older brothers once decided to pull a prank at him, tying a bucket of water over the door to his room, and how they dearly paid for it. You are laughing so loud that you have to press a palm to your mouth.

He is constantly moving, his wide dark eyebrows jump up and down, long fingered hands fly in the air, he probably has ADHD. His voice is expressive, low, velvet, and he is so openly attracted to you that you feel giddy. Two hours into the flight, from wine and the sheer stress of being in the metal trap of death you start nodding off.

You wake up when the captain announces the landing. You open your eyes, enveloped in his warmth and in the fresh nutty smell of his skin. Your cheek is pressed into the soft fabric of his cardie, and you see your hand on his lap, your fingers intertwined. He is looking out the window, small soft smile on his lips. You start moving away and he turns to you, "Hey." "Hey," you feel blush spreading on your cheeks. The plane starts going down, your ears plug, and you gulp. And then it shakes. Really hard. Your eyes probably widen in panic, and you inhale to spurt a new string of terrified swearings. And then he dives in and presses his lips to yours.

He is intoxicating! Your head literally swims, your eyes close, and you shamelessly moan into his lips. It is really inconvenient to kiss over the armrest, and he jerks it up. The flight attendant goes by and turns to you to remind you two to buckle in. Your arms are already wrapped around his neck, his hands on your waist, and she just goes by chuckling.

He tastes like beer, he tastes like sunshine, he tastes like himself, warm and inviting. You push your hands into his hair, and the plane lands. Probably. You really aren't sure. You move away and open your eyes. His are smiling, and you are once again stunned by the warm dark brown. That is a dominant gene, his kids will inherit it. Bloody fuck, what was this thought?

He takes out his card from his wallet and hands it to you. "Give me a call if it is indeed divorce papers and not carnations. OK?" You nod. Everybody starts getting up and pulling out their carry-ons. He lets you out, you don't have any bags. He is fumbling with his messenger bag, and you touch his shoulder. "Bye, Auggie." He smiles, "Bye, Wren."

You walk through the corridor, and your heart is beating frantically. You take a big gulp of water from your bottle and momentarily miss the taste of his lips. And then you remember, and you stop. You close your eyes and concentrate. "Common, Wren, you can do it. Few more steps and you will have your answer." You start walking again, and here are the gates. You pull up the strap of your handbag and step out in the arrivals terminal.

He is standing in the middle of it. There are no flowers in his hands. They are pushed into his pockets, in the endlessly familiar gesture. A dark blue cashmere sweater on his broad shoulders, the collar of a white button-up, the dark beard, the blue eyes… He notices you, and his lips twitch. You cannot actually see it, but you know his face so well, all the subtle little movements. And then he smiles. You can't see the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, or the curved up lips, or the way his throat bobs...

You start running, and he steps ahead as well. Your body slams into his, and he envelops you in his arms. You press your face into the hard muscles, and he crushes you into him. "Wrennie, oh Wrennie..." He cups your face and you are staring into each other's eyes. "I love you…" His voice is raspy, and you feel tears pooling in your eyes. "God, Wrennie, I love you, I missed you so much..." He leans in and you are kissing, desperately and ardently. You wrap your arms around his neck, and you are home.

He is mumbling something into your lips, but he really doesn't have to say anything. You push your hands into his hair and pull him away from you. His eyes are wet too, and you smile, "I want a baby now, John. We can start as soon as we get home." He guffaws, through tears and shaky voice, and you are kissing again.

He pulls you closer, and you press your cheek to his sweater. And then you catch Auggie's chocolate eyes across the terminal. He is smiling, a friendly melancholic smile, and then slightly waves with his large hand. You wave back, and John slightly lets you go and turns around. "Who is it?" His question is absent-minded, he is busy stroking your cheekbones with his thumbs. "We sat together on the plane, an oil engineer," John leans in and kisses you behind the ear. He hums nonchalantly and then murmurs, "Let's go home, Wren."


	25. Get the Girl

**A/N: For ****RagdollPrincess,**** and for myself to be honest. It is Amrod/Auggie centered. If you can't stand to see Wren with anyone but Thorin, ignore this one! We felt our brown-eyed hunk needs to get the girl at least once.**

"_**Are You Gonna Be My Girl" by Jet**_

_Your hand lies in his large palm, his long fingers envelop it, and his other hand is on your waist. The first step backwards, and his body is close. You feel the heat emanating from it, and you sigh… His chocolate eyes are warm and inviting, and you smile to him…_

You stride into a lift, posture and the set of your head confident and proud. Three pairs of male eyes are on you, and you turn facing the closing doors. The conversation between them stopped, you can feel their eyes on you. Let's face it, you make yourself randy in this suit. Extra narrow pencil skirt, asymmetrical collar on the jacket, impeccable creamy colour, your copper curl in a strict do, smart specs, who wouldn't want to score this? The killer heels are exceptionally good today, their red soils a Siren's call.

The door opens and another bloke comes in. He is so tall that you are staring at his skinny tie. You lift your eyes and realize he is the reason you are in this hotel. You smile to him, "Mister Anderson, I am Wren Leary." His dark brown eyes fall on you, and he gives you a surprisingly genuine smile. "Miss Leary, pleasure," he shakes your hand.

The meeting is held on the last storey of the building, and you travel up. You are calm and collected, quickly appraising him, obviously without him noticing. My oh my, he is magnificent! The shoulder and waist ratio is mental, a perfect triangle. Extra long legs, and the size of shoes gives all sorts of thoughts. The saying is an obvious boggus, but a girl can hope. Impeccable white button-up, a funny Grandpa cardigan over it, narrow trousers, and, Lord Almighty, these buttocks will be visiting you in your dreams very frequently now.

He slightly turns to you and look at you askew. "How are finding New york, Miss Leary?" "Like a very dusty London." He smiles wider. "Not a big fan of it myself, Miss Leary. Grew up at the South." You push the fantasy involving him in a cowboy hat at the back of your mind. You do not exorcise it though, just store it for later. "But what business demands, business gets."

He owns an immensely successful IT company, which allows him wear such clothes to a business meetings and attracts the vultures such as your firm to try to lure him into a merger. He is resisting, and your boss decided it is time to try a new approach. That would be you. You are a highly professional merger lawyer, and yet you find yourself suddenly daydreaming of a client. Not good. Also, never happened before. You are very good in compartmentalizing. But the fresh nutty smell of his skin is surprisingly distracting.

The doors open, and you walk out. There is a rotating restaurant under the roof of this building, and you clench your jaws. You are not a big fan of heights. He glances at you, and you two approach the table. There are five more lawyers at the table, and everybody shakes hands. The seat they left for you is facing the window and is nauseatingly close to the glass. You take a careful breath in. A waiter comes to move a chair for you, but the client doesn't sit down.

"Can we actually get another table? I hate heights." He gives a natural apologetic smile, and everyone starts shuffling and moving their chairs. You are moved to the wall, and you breath out. Everyone starts taking their places anew, and you catch his eyes. Suddenly he winks to you and smiles. Bloody hell, he did it for you!

The brunch is predictably fruitless. Except you get to enjoy excellent jamon and their Cornish crab baby leaf salad. He is drinking beer, and the way his throat moves spurs your imagination in a very, very naughty direction. But again, you do not shag your clients. Ever. Completely unacceptable. His long fingers fiddle with a stem from a cherry, while one of your colleagues is droning at the background. These are sexy hands, slender strong wrists, muscular forearms. If he happens to know what to do with these fingers, it can be an exceptionally good trip to New York. Bad, bad, Wren, get this thought out of your mind!

The brunch ends, and he gets up first. Everyone starts noisily moving. He stretches his hand to you, "Miss Leary, pleasure to meet you, pity I couldn't give you what you wanted." You smile. "Gentlemen," he bids his goodbyes and leaves. There is half an hour of enraged rapport after that, which you tolerate stoically. It was a lost case from the start. He has too much integrity and too little concern for money to agree to their offer.

Your boss insists on another meeting. This time it is a different posh restaurant, just the two of you, this time the brunch is al fresco, and the day is warmer. He is wearing a button-up with a waistcoat, and the sleeves are rolled up. You get to enjoy the view of his muscular chest and biceps, and you think your vibrator will have to work really hard tonight.

Since this is your last meeting and obviously there isn't much you can do to influence his decision, and also nothing can bugger up your reputation either, you opt for a teal wrap dress. Maybe you just want to catch couple of his looks at your arse. Just an innocent game before you catch your plane back home. You can't touch but you can just busk in how warm his laughing eyes are.

It starts with a Dachshund sticking its nose into your Birkin. You honestly don't understand what it's looking for in there. There is no food in it, hardly any organic material at all, but it is persistently hunting it. You are spinning trying to save the leather from its muzzle, and the leash wraps around you. The owner is one of those old ladies that look very nice but will bite your head off when miffed. You are trying to politely extricate yourself out of it, but it is to no avail. He rushes to help you, and you two are pretty much grinding in the middle of the posh patio. The lady is loudly expressing her contempt, while he is trying to catch the dog, and you are still trying to save your handbag.

And suddenly he starts laughing, and it is hearty, open mouthed laughter, his deep chocolate eyes hide behind thick dark lashes and his white teeth are gleaming. It is so sincere and cheerful that you join in. "Have you see _101_ _Dalmatians_?" He is panting from laughter. You chuckle and finally extricate yourself out of the trap. And then your heel catches on the cursed leash, and you fall into his arms.

You lift your face to him and see him smiling to you tenderly. You do not shag your clients, you do not shag your clients… Oh sod it all! You slide your hands on his chest and slightly dig your nail in the orgasmicly hard muscles there. He is looking down at you. "My place or yours?" Your voice is raspy, and you are only partially acting. He hikes up his brows but then bends down and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is all wrong. It is passionate, affectionate, that is not a kiss to precede a one off thing. His hands cup your face, he is tender and experienced. A man like that will not only shag you but also will pull your soul out. And then you will have to pick yourself up from the bottom of despair and live somehow without him. Red alert! Red alert! Full retreat! You step back and tuck a runaway curl behind your ear.

"Sorry, that was inappropriate. Not something I should be asking a client," you emphasize the last word, "I withdraw the question." He smirks, "I am not your client. As of five minutes ago when I firmly refused the proposal from your firm. So we can absolutely freely have dinner tonight?"

You are being stupid. You are barmy, you feel like a muppet. What are you doing, Wren? What an actual bloody hell? He is in your hotel room, and you are kissing in front of the fire. You had a lovely dinner, and now you are botching up everything. You are in full scale panic attack internally. His fingers slide into your hair, his skillful lips move on yours, his tall mouthwatering body towering over you, and you are literally weak in your knees.

Alrighty, Wrennie, this is what we are going to do. We are going to indulge a bit more and then we are going to fake a headache and toss him out of our room. Because for the first time in your life it is not just your fanny demanding this sweet piece of arse. Every cell in your body is trembling, muscles ache, and your knickers are drenched. He is funny, charming, smart, candid, has lovely parents and you have a return ticket to London for tomorrow.

His hands slide on your shoulder and a strap of your dress falls off from one of them. He presses his lips to the muscle between your neck and shoulder, and you drop your head back. You feel his tongue swirl on your skin, and you grab handfuls of his hair. His fingers pick up the zipper on your dress, and you hear a quiet "zzzz". And then the pulps of his fingers brush down your spine. Boy, he knows what he is doing.

Somehow that makes you feel worse, not better. Should you not be glad? You wanted a great shag, and you got it. A nice small adventure on a business trip. You push him away and inhale. "I can't..." What the fuck Wren?! That has never happened before. "I am sorry, I..." Say you have headache, say it Wren! "I have an early flight tomorrow..." It is at six, but who cares?

His face is confused, but then he nods. "Sure, no worries," he turns away and picks up his jacket from the floor where it fell five minutes ago. He makes a few steps to the door, but then he stops and turns around, "If you don't mind me asking, what is stopping you?" He is earnest, confusion written all over his face. Words are your weapon, but for once you don't feel like you are at war. "I just don't want a one night stand with you. I mean, you are marvelous, August Anderson," he hikes up his brows in the already familiar gesture, "I don't want to miss you when I leave."

He is pondering it, "Then don't leave." You chuckle and turn away from him. "Sure, I'll give it a thought." You pick up a glass of water from the table but he is not getting any of that. He comes back to you and is looming over you. "I am serious. Stay in New York, I'm sure they are dying to have you here." You smile over the rim of your glass. "I have a life in London, Mister Anderson." "And what does it consist of?" He pulls the glass out of your hands, and his dark eyes are focused on you. It is an electrifying experience. You suddenly remember that besides a computer genius he is also a ruthless businessman. "An apartment, you can get one here, no pets obviously, I doubt there is even a plant in there. Family and friends?" You shake your head. He is intoxicating. "I thought so. Lover? Boyfriend?" You shake your head again. He throws the jacket aside again and pulls you in. "Stay with me, Wren, and maybe New York will be a little bit more tolerable for both of us."

You just can't believe it! Does he really think he would be enough?.. He catches your mouth, and you think he might be onto something. The long fingers slide in the open back of your dress and he pushes it off you. Without taking his lips off you, he divests you of it, picks you up and carries you to bedroom bridal style. You are complacent, you are gathering information. He is putting you down and stretched on the bed near you. And then proceeds to caress every inch of your skin. He is tender, passionate and playful. He kisses, licks, nips, and even draws some patterns on it with the tips of his sensitive fingers. The tip of his long nose tickles your stomach, and you giggle.

And then you sharply push him and roll over him. He chuckles. You straddle him and straighten up your shoulders. "You are a bit of a wolf, aren't you? A manwhore is the word you habitually use in these lands, I believe." He is giving you a radiant smile and then gasps in fake horror. "Oh no! Don't tell me you are virgin!" You laugh. His tie flies off, and the shirt follows.

He is beautiful. Even bronze skin, perfect long lean muscles, and that is the most gorgeous chest you have even seen in your life. There is a tattoo between his shoulder blades, as you soon find out. You two are rolling on the bed, the fight for dominance getting increasingly more obvious. At some point you flip him over and have a peek. It is a large bull's skull, as far as you can understand. One of those things they put on the front of a truck in cowboy films. You trace it with your fingers. "I was eighteen, and all my brothers got one." You press your lips to the warm skin.

Then you press your cheek to his back, and your hands slide on the buckle of the belt. You shake him out of his trousers and pants, and oh my! He is not exceptionally thick, but the length! You are a small bird, that will take some getting used to. Which is jolly good news!

He presses you into the sheets. "Gender equality," he is murmuring into your skin and pulls off your knickers. And then he dips his tongue into you, his large hands caressing your breasts. You shift your hips guiding him to the favourite spot. He is rubbing your nipples with his thumbs through the lace of the bra. And then the palms swiftly cup your buttocks, and he lifts your pelvis. You open up more, and he is very, very thorough. There is an interesting pattern in his ministrations, lick, lick, twirl, lick, lick, dip, twirl, dip… And then he suddenly covers your whole sex with his mouth and sucks. Your hips jump up. Unpredictability is the mother of thrill.

One long finger slides in you, and he rubs the back wall of your entrance. That elicits the first moan out of you, and you press down into his hand. He is deliciously attuned to your reactions, and he is sucking on your clit, gently massaging the wall between your vagina and arse, and you come with a scream. That was fast, most men require instructions!

He carefully pulls the finger out, but doesn't move. He is still spread between your legs, and you peek on the chestnut mop of curls. He is tenderly kissing the sensitive skin on your thigh, and swirls his tongue on the hollow between your sex and the hip. You giggle, it tickles.

You sigh and grab his ears. The orgasm is still buzzing between your legs. "Shall we proceed?" He smirks, "No, I want another go." "What?" He presses his thumb into your clit, and you squeak. He is gentle but determined. His tongue dips into you, and you are moaning loudly. His hands are on your hips, and circular movements of his thumbs add an interesting dimension into the experience. You are panting, but with the second one you need just a bit more stimulation. You open your mouth to say so, when he tilts his head and pulls your lips into his mouth. You feel his teeth gently nipping, and you come the second time. It takes much longer to come down from this one.

He wipes his face with his palm, and you beckon his with your finger. You are so in love with his brilliant white toothed smile. He stretches near you on the bed, and you turn and press your lips to his. It is unhurried and passionate, and you feel like an icecream in sunlight. All sweet and liquid. He tries to roll over you, but you press a foot into the sheets and resist. You want on top, he is obviously not having any of it.

His hands slide on your waist, and he flips you on your stomach. That works too. He is kissing your back and gives you a long lick between your shoulder blades. The mouth moves lower, he kisses your right buttock, and then you hear him chuckle. "I was fifteen, and I thought Jonny Greenwood was fit." "At least you are not into Thom Yorke. But I can see you have a type." You are laughing, and then his hot length presses into your buttocks.

"Protection?" He hums and takes your hand. He puts it on his cock, and you feel the ridge of a condom on it. How in the name of all deities? And when?! He is laughing and out of sheer vengeance, and because this low throaty rumble does some magical things to you, you pick up your pelvis and swiftly push yourself onto him. He chokes and groans.

"Damn it, Wren, you are so hot..." The accent is stronger, the Southern drawl more obvious, and it is so bloody sexy. He is supporting himself on straight arms, and experimentally rolls his hips. You push back, he pins you down. And then he start moving slowly, accentuated deep thrusts, and you are bending backwards, trying to get him deeper. One of his hands lies on your hip and squeezes it. "You just can't pass the reigns, can you?" He is raspy.

You push back and give him your best impersonation of a stretching cat. Your arms are straight in from of your on the sheets, nails clawing the pillow. "God, you are sexy..." He pushes more roughly, and you purr. And then you get up on all four and shove your pelvis back. "Well, since you just can't calm down…" He straightens up, kneeling behind you, and plunges his cock into you. Oh yes, that's the spot!

You two set a nice rhythm, and you are whining. It is fucking brilliant! Everything about it is perfect, he is perfect. Sweet, hot thrill is running through your veins and nerves, every cell in you is singing, and you bend your back more. One of his hand slides on your back, and you can feel the scorching palm and splayed fingers on your tingling skin. "God, I am so not letting you go..." Your eyes are closed, and you gasp, "I am not going anywhere..."

He is speeding up, and soon you can feel he is close. 'Come, Wren, I need you to come..." You are half-conscious by now, your head spinning, but you somehow manage to moan, "I can't, not like this..." He suddenly bends down, his arms on your sides, hands on yours, and you feel his lips on the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Tell me how…" "I need to be on top, that's the only way..."

"I bet, I can do better..." He pulls out of you, and you gasp. His large hands lie on you, and he pushes you on the bed on your back. He spreads your legs and thrusts into you. You arch your back and moan. Orgasm or not, he feels exceptionally good inside you. He is supporting himself on his elbows, his forearms under your shoulders, and his warmth, his smell, his body are all around you. You are intertwined, and you feel enveloped in him. He catches your mouth and starts moving.

It feels so fucking good, but you feel a bit bad for him. Many tried, no one succeeded. If they add some stimulation of the clit, it just feels annoying. If you try yourself, you are distracted. He is not moving his hands though, they are still on the sides of your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones and temples. He is kissing you, and you decide to just go with it. You start reciprocating, your lips and tongue answering him, and strangely enough you feel some pressure building in your lower stomach. And then it hits you! You gasp and twist your mouth from under him. "Oh my god, oh my fucking god, oh my god..."

It is big, hot, like a tsunami, like a forest fire, like a… You are making loud panting and moaning noises at the same time, you also might be chanting his name… That's what everyone is talking about! That is a fucking bliss and rapture! You don't even have any energy left to grind into him, everything is white and hot, the world has faded, and all you can perceive is the perfect orgasm roaming through your body.

You open your eyes and look at him. He looks exceptionally smug but you don't fucking care. You press your lips to his, you are so fucking in love with him right now! He is kissing you, and you smile into his lips. He lifts a brow. "Care to aim for another one?" You feel his thumb moving towards your clit, and you bite his lip. "Leave my fanny alone, she is unconscious!" He laughs. And then your wrap your legs around his narrow hips tighter and push your pelvis up. "Come for me, Auggie… Come for me, baby," you are murmuring, and he starts moving.

You are so sensitive that you can't help but cry out with each of his thrusts. He is obviously gentle, but soon his control is slipping and he lift his upper body over you. His eyes are shut, and he looks so beautiful! At the very last moment the chocolate eyes fly open, and he looks at you. There is a new smile on his lips, you haven't seen this one yet, and then he throatily moan and comes. His head drops down, he presses his forehead to yours, and his hips roll into you several more times. You can actually feel his cum hitting the condom inside, and his cock is jerking in you. You are rubbing his shoulders and kiss his temple. You feel him press his lips to your neck, and he is murmuring something. It is something beautiful and sincere, and you understand with all possible clarity in the world that you are so not taking that plane tomorrow.

_You move to the rhythm. "I love this song..." He smiles. "That is why we chose it. Isn't it the whole point?" You roll your eyes. "I mean I am loving it right now. Koko knows what she is doing!" He chuckles. "Though the lyrics are not very fitting don't you think? _I'm a-mixed up about you_?" "But you are mixed up about me, aren't you Mister Anderson?" "Well, yes I am, Missus Anderson," he drawls with an exaggerated accent, and pushes you away on his stretched arm and then swirls you. Your body is light and bubbling with the familiar thrill he gives you, and then you are pulled back into him. He dips you backwards, and the wedding guests cheer. You are laughing into his happy eyes and shimmy your shoulders. "Oh I am so having you for dessert tonight, Mister Anderson!" He straightens up and catches your mouth. The music goes on but you two don't care. His hands slide on the lace on your back, and you shiver. "And any other day too, please, Missus Anderson." _


	26. Drunk, Not in Love

**A/N: Thank you, ****Neewa****, for the prompts!**

**A/N#2: This one will have two parts (at least:P), since ****Neewa**** was so generous with her prompts :) The first one is "seeing only glimpses of John or Wren" (I don't know why my brain went into this direction instead of the initial "see each other on the fire escape during a blackout" one :D); and the second one will be "getting hot in a cold ski lodge" since it turned out RA is a big fan of skiing.**

"_Drunk in Love" by Beyonce_

You stumble, and everything swirls around. Wow, colours, circles and birdies… "Wren, Wren, common, girl, couple more steps," Thea sounds concerned, you feel you should reassure her, but your tongue feels funny…

"What's wrong with her?" Someone's voice suddenly drums into your brain, and you feel like snarkily answer that there is nothing wrong with you, and they should have a good look at themselves, but again, none of your muscles seems to be doing what you tell them… Thea picks you up more firmly and drags you towards the exit from the cottage. She puts you on a bench outside and kneels in front you. Her gorgeous hazel eyes swim out of the haze. You smile to her, she is so beautiful… "I love you, Thea, did you know?... Like really love you, almost for real… Like a body..." She chuckles.

"Wrennie, how are you?" The party inside the cottage is in full swing, and you suddenly feel sad that you are preventing her from enjoying it. Giant drunk tears fill your eyes, "I'm so sorry, Thea… I am ruining your night..." "Hey, hey, not your fault some wankers just don't understand what "no" means..." Your lips tremble, and you are staring into the black sky. Oh, pretty stars...

Suddenly you feel the presence of another person, but you can't lower your eyes. Somehow it feels like they rolled back into your head, and now it is too heavy to move. "Are you alright, Miss? Does your friend need help?" The voice is deep and pleasant, even through a high pitch ringing in your ears. You wave your hand in front of your face trying to clear out the sparkly purple mist in your eyes. And then you look at the bloke in front of you askew. It is too dark, you can only see a silhouette. Wow, that is a huge body! And the mane of hair makes him look even bigger. Look at those arms, massive… There is something regal and majestic in the posture... Those palms, one hand in a fist, like a sledgehammer… "Hammer… Anvil..." You sound funny and really didn't mean to say it. There is something really wrong with verbal centers of your brain in the moment.

"We are fine, ta. Some tosser threw a shot in her fizzy drink, and she doesn't drink," Thea's words reach your dazed brain. You sniff in indignation. What kind of a twat would do that to a girl? And then you realize it is your fizzy drink she is talking about. Right… It's true, you can't drink…

Thea chats up the shadow bloke for a bit more, and you think you feel a bit worse. "Thea…" She hurriedly scoots in front of you. "I think I need to go to the loo..." You really would prefer to vomit there, somehow you really don't want to manky up the white snow. Pretty snow, fluffy...

"Certainly, love, let's try to reach our lodge," she tries to lift you, but your whole body is made of Angel Delight. You giggle and realize that the reason the world looks so funny is that you are crossed-eyed. You shake your head, clearly imagining how your eyes bob in your noggin like snooker balls.

"Do you want me to help?" The shadow bloke offers gallantly. "Wren, can he help?" Right, that's your body he would have to manhandle. "Help yourself," you wave your hand in the air with flare. Or maybe you look like an inflatable man in front of a car wash. He steps closer, but your vision hasn't been fully back. All you can see is the outline of his broad shoulders and his right ear. It is a very sexy ear.

His face is suddenly very close and your vision gets assaulted by the bright blue of his eyes. You stretch your hand and touch presumingly his nose."Pretty..." He chuckles. "You are quite a stunner yourself." You puff air in indignation. "Don't flatter yourself, mister. The colour!.. 007 BA 7!" "James Bond?" Who is bladdered here? He isn't making any sense.

He picks you up in his arms, and it feels so good! He is hard, warm, and smells very nice. The spicy manly fragrance makes your mouth water. You are so comfortable too. "What about James Bond?" He did say something about James Bond, didn't he? You are trying to concentrate, but now all your have in your narrow circle of vision is his ear and temple. You touch a silver strand with the tip of your fingers. The cerulean eyes screw sideways, and he chuckles again.

"You said 007," he has an amazing voice, it's like syrup, or molasses, or that chocolate sauce they make for crepes in that bistro… "I am hungry," you whine and hide your face into his neck. And then you nuzzle his skin and press your lips to it. You can't help it, he is like the warm caramel sauce that is even better than the chocolate sauce.

He chuckles again, "Is she always like that when squiffy?" You giggle. Squiffy!.. Thea is apparently walking along, you can't really see her, you are busy studying his ear. "She is intolerant, no one has ever seen her drunk."

Suddenly you start crying loudly, large hot tears run down your face, and some probably get under the collar of his jumper as well. You wrap your arms around his neck and sob. "Oh Wrennie, what is it?" He stops, and Thea's face comes out of the haze again. "Wrennie? What is it, love?" "He said I was a frigid bitch… I was already feeling funny but he was still disgusting..." You wipe your nose with your sleeve, you normally don't do it... But you can't remember how they call the thing you wipe your nose with…

"Oh Wrennie, forget the tosser! Nothing to think about in there!" You turn and ask the ear in front of you, "Am I frigid?" You stroke it with the tip of your finger. It is a very nice ear, it will not hurt your feelings. Suddenly it disappears from your view, and there is a pair of blue eyes instead. Right, ears are attached to heads, and eyes are usually there too. These eyes are lovely, there is a smile dancing in them. Or maybe you are just drunk.

"I have known you for about five minutes, but I'll tell you, you are definitely not frigid. I have hard time keeping my libido in check from all your ministrations." "Ministry what?" You think of David Cameron and wrinkle your nose. "You are kissing my neck," he is chuckling again, "It is very arousing." "I like it," you slide the pulp of your index finger up and down a tendon on it, "It is nice, caramel and stuff." You press your lips there again. Yep, definitely tastes great.

"Alright, Wrennie, leave the bloke be," Thea is chuckling, "Honestly, she is usually very decent, uptight I would say, it's just the booze." "No offense taken, it is rather flattering." You stop listening, you are utterly distracted since you found the hollow spot between his collar bones. You stroke it with your fingers and then slide them under the collar. Mmm, the chest hair... Rough, and the muscles are so warm... His hands on you tighten. "Slow down, love," his voice sounds slightly different, "Buy me dinner first." You like this new voice, it makes you feel funny in your lower stomach. You kiss his neck again and then suck a bit on the delicious skin there. "Sure, we can have some crepes. You will be the sauce..."

And then you black out. In the unpleasant darkness that is the next fourteen hours you see weird distorted shapes of plates with dessert, your senses are flooded with masculine taste and delicious smell of scorching skin. You open your eyes and immediately regret this action. The world is ugly, dreary, the burgundy colour of the curtains is disgusting, and you moan.

You are fighting nausea for a few minutes and then still run to the bathroom. Your stomach painfully empty, you come out and drain a glass of water that Thea obviously left for you. There is a note, and it takes a while to read it. You realize you don't have your glasses, and you pretty much have to press the paper into your nose. _"Left to get groceries. Call me if anything. You caught a big fish yesterday. He already called. Attagirl! T." _There is an unfamiliar phone number written underneath. That is not Thea's handwriting. What an actual hell is that? And then you remember.


	27. Not Drunk, Not in Love

**A/N: There will be part three obviously :D The first one was "Drunk, Not in Love", this one is "Not Drunk, Not in Love", guess what the third one will be! :D**

Everything is bloody fuzzy, and you can't concentrate. It feels like your mind is scratching at some hard surface, but you can't seem to actually grasp what is happening… It is like you are trying to get a better look of the landscape rushing by a car window, your nose pressed to it… And then you realize your nose is actually uncomfortably squished. You decide to rub it, and you suddenly can't move your arm. You jerk it again and hear a strict voice, "Try not to move, Mister Thorington. You have sustained rather serious injuries." Right, that explains the whiteness around, you are in a hospital.

You turn your head and try to focus on what you see. The middle age bloke in a white coat is probably a doctor, there is a woman with short hair too. You blink several times. You can't remember what happened.

"What?..." Your voice doesn't comply, you sound very raspy. "You were hit by an inexperienced snowboarder, he was on a wrong track." Right… There was a kid, bright red jacket… "You have a broken leg, and a broken arm, bruises on your face..." Oh, that explains the funny feeling in your nose, there is plaster on its bridge. "There is a mild concussion, but it really could have been much worse. You are a lucky man, Mr. Thorington." Somehow you don't feel like one at the moment. "We contacted your sister, is there anyone else we need to inform of your accident?" "No," you shake your head, and everything swims. "You should get some sleep, Mr. Thorington, we gave you something for the pain. You might feel a bit disoriented." He calls this a bit disoriented? You momentarily think of skank weed in uni. Everything has that same weird tinge of green to it right now…

You wake up presumingly the next day. They give you another IV, and the overall fuzziness prevails. Apparently, the leg has been damaged severely, but you honestly think you would take pain over this greenish mist that is floating before your eyes.

She is a vision in blue, a bunch of white carnations in her hands. The smile is shy, and her cheeks are burning. Her eyes are of that weird brownish greenish colour you remember from the time when her head was lying on your shoulder, her small hand pressed to your collar bones. You smile. Well, this hallucination is much better that the weird shapes and swirls you have been enjoying for the past half an hour.

"Hey," the voice is as nice as you remember it. She puts the flowers in a vase on a table and is standing in front of your bed. You try to focus, little fidgety movements of her slender fingers utterly distracting. "I am Wren, I don't know if you remember me..." Funny, your imagination gave her an exotic name. "You are the drunk girl..." Oh that didn't come out nice, even a hallucination won't like this…

She bites her bottom lip. "Yes, it is me. I just thought that you probably don't have anyone to visit you… I feel so stupid..." She is chewing on her bottom lips and starts backtracking to the door, and you stretch your hand to her. "Please, don't go..." She tentatively takes your hand, and her fingers are warm and strong." "Sorry, they gave me these meds… I can't think straight…" She chuckles. It is throaty, and if anything in your body could move, something would definitely stir. "Well, then we are even." The corners of her lips are turned up. You remember her small hot mouth on your neck…

You pull her hand and make her sit on the edge of your bed. "You didn't call me..." You sound grouchy. You should be nicer to her, maybe she will stay for longer, you like her here. Somehow it feels less white here when you can look at her. The hair is astonishing, bouncy curls sticking out, and you let go of her hand for a moment. You press your palm into the halo and then let go. The orange springs predictably bounce back into their initialy shape. She giggles.

"You are completely narked, aren't you?" She picks up your hand herself, and you think that she is a very kind hallucination. When you are out of here, you will call the real her. Maybe she is at least a bit that wonderful. The thumbs of both her hands are rubbing your knuckles.

"The doctors told me you got hurt so much because you chose to fall off the edge of the slope instead of hitting other people..." You do not remember it, but since it makes her smile, you nod. She has a very sexy mouth, but you haven't brushed your teeth for two days. Maybe you can convince her to kiss your cheek. Another fuzzy thought enters your brain.

"Am I scratchy?" "What?" "Do I have a beard?" She lifts her brows. It looks so cute that you pull your hand out and touch the tip of her nose with your finger. She suddenly shifts and presses her lips to it. "You are definitely a hallucination..." You might be pronouncing about a half of letters in this word wrong.

"And you are bladdered," she is smiling, "And yes, you have a very nice beard. I wonder if you will remember this tomorrow..." "I will remember you… I remember how you pushed your hand down my collar… I have a fetish, you know?" Why are you telling her this? Even hallucinations don't discuss such thing on their first visit.

But she moves closer, "Oh really? What kind of fetish?" You put your palm on your collar bones. "It' sensitive here, and the throat… Makes me randy..." She tentatively stretches her hand but then jerks it back. You might be slightly whining in disappointment. She giggles again. "I am not going to sexually assault you while you are half conscious in a hospital bed..." "I don't mind."

Really, you don't. You remember her little fingers clawing at your chest, while she was sucking at your throat. You still can't believe the amount of self-control you demonstrated that night. "Why didn't you call me?.." You sound whiny, "I thought you liked me… You said something about James Bond..."

She chuckles. "I said 007 BA 7, it is the hex code for cerulean colour. Your eye colour. I am a graphic designer…" "Oh," you can imagine that you look pathetically bummed, "so I do not remind you of Roger Moore?" You cock one brow. She giggles again, and then you feel her fingers lightly brush your temple. "Timothy Dalton maybe?.. He botched up the films, but I don't like blonds." You have to concentrate really hard to remember your haircolour. Good, more Pierce Brosnan than Daniel Craig.

"I was going to call you, but I chickened out," she is speaking softly, her fingers still brushing your hair. "And then Thea told me she heard of your accident." "Is Thea the other one? The busty one..." The hallucination Wren bites her lip again. "Yeah, the cute brunette." You are staring at her. Is she serious?

"You are very hot." She jerks her hand away from your temple. "Sorry, usually my hands are cold, sorry..." "I mean sex…" You try to shake your thoughts back in place, they are clanking in your head, "I mean sexy..." The slanted eyes are giant. You run the finger down the narrow elegant bridge of her nose. "I want to kiss your freckles..."

You screw your eyes. The IV is almost done, meaning you have just a few minutes before you are out. You turn back to her. She is sitting with her mouth slightly open, probably still digesting your last phrase. Oops, might have been a bit straightforward… Is it the expression? Or is it something about straight ahead? Everything is increasingly blurred, and you are grasping for the remnants of consciousness. "Wren..."

She picks up your hand again. God, it feels nice, she feels nice… "Will you come back? I mean I know hallucinations can't choose themselves… But can you try to come back tomorrow? " She lets go of your hand and cups your face.

Through the strange cloud of the meds you feel her little fingers gently stroke your face and then slightly scratch the beard. Maybe you have a new fetish now. That is so bloody brilliant! You close your eyes from the sheer bliss and then sharply make them open in panic. You are not ready to sleep yet.

She presses her lips to your cheek and murmurs into your ear, "I'll come tomorrow. Get some sleep." Your lids are heavy, and you let your eyes close. You feel a couple more brushes of her gentle fingers on your face, and it is dark.


	28. Not Drunk, but Maybe in Love

**A/N: There will be part four as well :D Since I still didn't get to "getting hot in a cold lodge" part of ****Neewa****'s prompt :)**

You spend the rest of your vacations in the hospital bed. She comes every day. She is funny, sexy, blushes easily, and she is perfect. When she is leaving at the end of the fourth day, she leans in to kiss your cheek, and you slightly shift your head and catch her mouth. You have wisely brushed your teeth beforehand. Her brows hike up but then she closes her eyes, you know since you are peeking, and leans in more. Her hand in on the headboard, and she is a very good kisser. You put your healthy hand on the back of her head. You might be slightly obsessed with touching her extraordinary hair. She sighs into your mouth, and you feel her tongue caress your upper lip.

Before it got too randy, she straightens up. You notice smugly that she looks rather dazed. Her next sentence confirms your evaluation, "God, you are like brew… I think my head is spinning..." She smiles to you. But then her face grows serious. "We have only three days left till we have to go back to work. Me and Thea, we have this project, it is a site for those healthy food shops…" She is mumbling. You have noticed that habit of hers.

"They won't release me for another week at least," you tread carefully. She nods. "But when I'm out, someone will have to take care of me. This," you point your eyes at your leg, "Will stay for another five weeks at least." "Oh, so you just need a nurse," she looks at you mischievously. "Do you happen to have the uniform?" You might be smiling a bit too widely. "I'll see what I can do."

Your sister comes and drives you to the airport. All through the flight you are thinking about the slightly too heated snogging that served as your goodbye with Wren. Her hand slid on your chest, and then under the tee, and you gasped. She pulled it out and apologised. It made you laugh, she seems to be treating your kink as a disability and be very careful, in her words, "not to make you uncomfortable". She is so fit that you are uncomfortable in your pants most of the time. You chatted on the phone couple times after she left, and she sent you an email with a photo of herself and her friend Thea pretending to be asleep on the tables in their office. Apparently, the project is an aggro.

Deadre helps you to get to your flat and spends the day. She organizes easy access to food and loo for you, puts clutches near your bed, and you finally rid yourself of her. You love her to shreds, but she fusses. She is so used to mothering two boys, that she forgets that unlike them you actually tend to take care of yourself and eat something besides Domino's. Your phone rings, and you hope it's Wren.

It is. "Welcome back," her voice is happy, but she sounds exhausted, "How was your flight?" "Fine, and I am home, all settled. My sister brought me chicken soup." "Awww, I was just going to offer… I mean I was going to ask if you had food… Not that I was going to invite myself…" Her adorable mumbling continues but you can't distinguish words anymore.

"Wren, would you like to come and visit me?" There is a bit of silence on the other end. Did you understand her wrong? "Can I come tomorrow? I look like shite, and we haven't slept last night with Thea, and there is still so much to..." She yawns loudly. "Sure, I'll email you the address. Come any time you want. I will probably just stay home tomorrow. No running errands and hitting the gym." She chuckles. "It is actually rather convenient. I always know where you are… I mean not that I would stalk you or something…" You laugh. "Alrighty, I'll just stop talking and will go and fall asleep in the copier room. Again..." You chuckle. "Bye, Wren." "Bye, John," she yawns again and hangs up.

She comes over at five and by then you are barmy with boredom. You were never too big on staying home before. Telly drives you mad, you have read both books your sister left you and ordered some more online. And you might have made some other impulsive purchases on Amazon. You are not used to being caged.

She knocks and carefully opens the door. You are propped in the pillows on a sofa in the living room. There is a white box in her hands. The intoxicating smell of some pastry hits your nose, and you lick your lips. But first things first… She puts it on the table and approaches you. You so much love her shy blush. "Hi," she steps closer, and you grab her hand and pull her on your lap. She is so small that she curls into you and her tiny feet don't reach the floor. "Hi," you catch her lips and can finally enjoy her taste without expecting a nurse to walk on you two. Again...

She is stroking the back of your neck, and you feel her deft little fingers pulling the hair tie out. And then she freezes. She has this wonderful tendency of doing something before thinking, and then getting scared of her own boldness and backing up. You press her tighter into yourself and nod. It feels funny, since you are simultaneously kissing her, but she gets the message.

"I am sorry, I just really like it… So silky..." She is a bit breathy, since your lips are on her neck. She drops the head back a bit and pushes her fingers into your hair. Fingernails gently scratch your scalp, and that drives you mad! Maybe if she straddles you, you can find some nice position…

She pushes away from you a bit and presses her forehead to yours. "Should we…" She sounds choked and clears her throat. "Should we be doing this? I mean you are hurt..." Apparently that's the only thing that is stopping her. Bless. You dive in and kiss her jaw. "It's just the leg and the arm now…" She moans. You guess you are not the only one in here who likes their neck touched. And kissed. And licked. Oh, that one turns out the most productive. And kudos to her for keeping her voice down in the hospital, she is apparently very vocal.

She carefully shifts, and she is finally straddling you. You kiss the freckled nose. "You might have to do all the work though..." You lift your arm in a cast. She smirks. Oh, that one is new, quite predatory by the way. "You will repay me later." She pulls off her jumper and there is a lacy blue bra there. You so wish you had both hands now. But at least you can unclasp it with one. She is kissing you and then smiles into your lips. "You are suspiciously good at it." She slides the straps off and the bra theatrically flies across your living room. "I am in computer repairs, remember? Need the dextrosity." She lifts a sceptical brow, and then picks up the hem of your tee. It gets stuck on the cast on your arm, and you both are laughing.

She lowers her head and presses her lips to your throat. And then her hot little tongue slides down and swirls in the hollow between the collar bones. The pulps of her tiny fingers caress the skin there too, and you are losing your mind. Everything about her is wonderful, whatever she does is magnificent, but still this is the best… Her lips slide on your jaw, and she gently bites into the beard. Oh, maybe not, that feels fucking great too…

She pushes your track trousers down, together with the pants, and you groan. "Sorry, I thought we are already…" She is mumbling again, and you press your lips to hers. "Yes, yes, we are, please, hurry up..." She giggles and momentarily moves off you to take off her knickers. Bless the summer, bless the skirt, bless her preparedness. A condom is rolled over you, and you finally slide into her. Oh fuck… She is tight, and hot, and you think you are in love. You two are moving, well, mostly her, her hips rolling into you, and your palm is pressed into her shoulder blades. She breathes out adorable little panting sounds and then comes.

She presses her forehead to yours, and she is shaking. "I am sorry, it's just that I really wanted, and you are so big… I am so sorry, I can't move just yet..." You guffaw. Is she apologising for the best compliment you can get regarding your bedroom skills, which you are not demonstrating at the moment, but you are so shagging her into most satisfied bliss when you are out of the casts? Or is she apologizing for telling you she wanted you and that you are big? You are rubbing her back and pepper kisses on her face. "Take your time, I am perfectly comfortable right now." She moves her face away and looks you in the eyes.

"Comfort isn't quite the point of this, isn't it?" You smile to her. She starts moving again, her movement rougher and more determined this time, and you are growling. God, she is sexy! She drops her head back, and you catch a hard nipple in your mouth. She moans loudly and puts her hands on the back of the sofa behind you. It gives her better momentum and wider swing, and soon enough you are shattering in front of her. Mother of God, this woman…

You are sitting intertwined, and she is lazily drawing some patterns on your forearm with the tips of her fingers. "What's in the box?" She chuckles and straightens up. "Crepes, I stopped by the French bistro by the bridge." "Aaah, the famous crepes that you were going to consume with me as the sauce the very first night…" She blushes and then pecks your lips. "And I was right. You are absolutely delicious!"


	29. Take a Chance

**A/N: I am still sick and was watching "Mamma Mia!" tonight, bundled up in blankies :) It was supposed to have a sad ending, colds make me depressed, but damn, I am putty in Thorin's hands :) His large, hot hands, yum! :P**

"Take A Chance on Me" by ABBA

The heavy skirt of a white linen dress wraps around your calves, you are swirling, the sweet fragrant aroma of hibiscus in the black Egyptian night, stars twice as large as they are at home above your head, you drop your head back and stare at the velvet night sky of Cairo through the cuts in your mask. You could never understand the purpose of masquerades, people are so easily recognized by their bodies. You slip out of the hands of your partner, and in a dizzying twirl you switch to the next one. Hands clap above your heads, shoulders bump, and he encircles you in a unison with other dancers. You stretch your hand to him and smile to obviously the father of the bride. The mouth under grey moustache returns the expression, and you pat his shoulder. Another spin, and you bump into the groom. You shove his shoulder in the movement familiar from the school days, and he laughs, picks up your hand and swirls you. Another change of partners, and you shimmy your shoulders in front of his younger brother.

There is no point to hide the top half of anyone's face, the body will tell you who is dancing near. Your eyes fall on a tall figure lazily and gracefully moving three pairs to your right, and your heart clenches. What is the point of the glitter and features on a narrow piece of cardboard, if your body immediately reacts to the wide shoulders, narrow waist, massive arms, the proud regal posture and the mane of dark waves? The cold blue eyes gleam through the cuts in the mask, and the dancers switch again.

His arm encircles you, and the curved familiar lips twist in a smirk. His usual fragrance hits your nose, mixed with the intoxicating smell of his skin, and every cell in your body responses. The long strong fingers slide down your upper arms, and you press your palm into his chest. And then it slides lower, your nails raking his stomach, you lower yourself in front of him in a sensual move, arching your back, and your eyes lock.

He bends down, his arm wraps around your middle, and he straightens up, lifting you, your body virtually drooping over his arm, and his lips press into your neck. He twirls you in his arms, and you embrace his neck, holding on to him. His lips are by your ear. The voice is velvet and lust, "Would you like to leave?" You do not need to nod, he can see the answer in your eyes.

He is dragging you away from the dance floor, your hand in his hot palm, and then he pushes you into a wall. You are hardly concealed by the bushes, but your head is swimming, and the night is intoxicating. He hikes up your skirt, pulls you to him and up, your body opens up, the legs wrap around his waist. He pushes you thongs to the side and thrusts into you in a familiar forceful move. You moan throatily and pulls his hair, messing his ponytail. He is pounding into you, your back scraping to the white wall. He presses one palm into it, and he is growling into your neck.

"Come for me, kiddo," he knows exactly what he doing. He is sucking on the muscle between your neck and your shoulder, familiar and endlessly effective ploy, and then his white teeth nip on the already sensitive skin there. The angle is perfected through years, and you come with an obscene scream. He shutters a second later, synchronicity having always been your virtue.

He is breathing heavily, and you are sliding down the wall. You feel dizzy and broken, your knees tremble, and tears rise. You bite into your lip angrily. You turn away from him and fix your clothes. You hear the zipper of the fly. "It doesn't change anything..." Your voice is small and hollow. "You are still nothing but a wanker of my ex husband..."

You are calm now and turn around. His chin is lifted, and his lips are pressed together in a stern line. "Suit yourself." His voice is gruff and bitter. You turn around and start walking back to the hotel. He catches your upper arm, swirls you and presses you into his body. "Please, don't leave..." You try to push him away. "Please, please, Wrennie, please..."

He knows there are no promises to make, no apologies to give, nothing will work, but he is trying, he is begging, and something snaps. Tears burst out of your eyes, and you press your forehead into him, and nod. Hardly noticeable, but enough. He falls on his knees and presses his face into your stomach. His hands grab bunches of your dress, and he sobs. One more chance, he just needs one more chance.

You lift your face to the sky and take off your mask. He catches your hand holding it and presses his lips to the knuckles. The cardboard with glitter and feathers falls on the ground, and he is kissing your palm. There is no ring on the finger, and he kisses the phalanx. You run your other hand through his hair and sigh. You look down at him, and you smile to each other through tears. One more chance...


End file.
